


Tears of Ice

by Emmithar



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Hosea whump, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt Hosea, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Non-Consensual Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25817290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar
Summary: It was supposed to be an easy job. Easy his ass. Hosea had every intention of confronting Dutch and demanding to know the exact definition of easy. Because this job had been anything but.----In which Dutch's plan, unsurprisingly, does not go well. And others pay the price.
Comments: 118
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello...
> 
> Well this was entirely unexpected. This was not ANY of the stories I was working to post next. I was working on my next big story to post and this rabid squirrel came up and attacked me. True story, I swear!
> 
> I wrote this in roughly two hours (so please mind any mistakes). It is not complete so I won't have a posting schedule, but I promise I won't leave you guys hanging for too long. But you know, you gotta do what the squirrel wants, right? Right???
> 
> Warnings may change as the story goes on, but I don't anticipate anything too graphic or dark. Some of the warning I have up are just to cover all the bases as I don't want to blindside anyone, but I promise it's nothing too extreme. I'll post additional warnings in at the beginning of the chapters if that is the case.

It was supposed to be an easy job. Easy his ass. Hosea had every intention of confronting Dutch and demanding to know the exact definition of easy. Because this job had been anything but. If it had been easy they would be back at camp. If it had been simple, they would be toasting one another around a warm fire, celebrating their victory with some beer. If it had been straightforward, they wouldn't be up here in the middle of the god damn night fighting their way through a snowstorm. On foot nonetheless.

Dutch had taken the lead, Arthur close behind him. This was perhaps the boy's third robbery. He had been with them for about six months now. And angry little fella he was, full of fire and spit. Had used that rage to convince the owners of the said house to reveal where their stash had been hidden. They had managed to secure most of it, and that was when Colm had showed up. Never had been fond of that man. Dutch had pulled several scores with him before, but had claimed to cut ties with man after his violent tendencies and unpredictable rage surfaced. Thinking back, Hosea could remember Dutch talking about the score. Rich folk who didn't trust the bank, apparently hid all their valuables in the walls. Where he had heard that from Hosea hadn't been certain. Now he was beginning to think he had gotten that information from Colm himself. After all what were the odds of both gangs showing up at the same place on the same night? Dutch had been adamant that it was an easy score. So they had gone. And now here they were.

They had left their horses at the base of the mountain. The path had been too narrow and unsteady for the likes of them. Sending them racing off in the other direction would also buy them precious time. Enough time for them to hike their way up, ignoring the path in favor of rockier terrain. They couldn't afford to be caught on the road. It had been raining then. Turning to snow as they edged up the side. Damn difficult task that was alone, made even worse by the pain in his ankle.

It wasn't broken. Turned most likely. Sprained perhaps. He would have to take a proper look at it when they stopped. All he remembered was hearing the pop, the fierce burn working its way up his limb as he limped away from the house. The jump had only been from the second story, off a slanted roof. That seemed the best course of action. Either jump or get into a shoot out with Colm and his men at point blank range. Seemed like a no-brainer. He had done it a hundred of times before. This should have been no different. Didn't seem to be much of a problem at first seeing that they took to their horses. Then the law had shown up. Had chased them north. Now that he was on foot he was really starting to feel the pain.

The terrain was starting to level out now. Not so steep. But snow blanketed the ground here, a thin layer kicked up by their feet. If the law followed them up this far then they could track them easily. Of course the fresh snow coming down would help to hide their tracks given enough time. He prayed they would have enough time. He hefted the bag on his shoulder, switching sides. Wasn't so much heavy as it was cumbersome. Didn't help that his limp was getting worse. Half contemplated on calling out to the others, but he doubted they would be able to hear him. They were a fair distance ahead; that much he could tell by the swaying of their lanterns, the only source of light in this blasted mess.

Hosea glanced back down, letting his hat block out most of the snow. Kept trudging on because what else could they do? They couldn't go back lest they run into the law. Couldn't stop here because they would damn well freeze to death without any shelter. But was going up this way the wisest of decisions? They needed to get out of this blasted weather.

“Hosea?!”

He glanced up at the call, watching the light sway, brightening as it drew closer. Vaguely could make the shape out as the boy drew closer, holding the lantern high. All of fourteen years and he looked it now. Pale cheeks, a slight blue tinge to his lips, his fingers bright red and icy cold as the latched onto his arm.

“Where are your gloves?” He cursed hurriedly, wrapping his own gloves fingers about the frozen ones.

“On Bandit,” Arthur replied as though that should be obvious. Might as well been seeing how quickly they had abandoned their steeds. Had he the time he would have torn his gloves off and passed them to him despite the fact they would be too big. Not that it would make much difference. That thin coat he had was doing him no favors of keeping him warm.

“Dutch says there's a place we can shelter up, it's not too far.”

He hoped to god that Dutch was right. The man was still ahead of them, seemingly stopped. Seemed to be waiting. Must have sent Arthur back to help him catch up. Hosea tried to hurry along, grimacing as the pain flared in his ankle. Arthur must have noticed his limp, that or heard the gasp that had come out because the boy had moved, had taken the bag from him. He almost protested. Arthur already had his own sack to carry, he shouldn't be burdened with both. But he was strong, big for his age and he shouldered it without complaint. Even stayed by his side in case he needed the support. They may only have known each other for a few months now, but it felt so much longer than that. Arthur had fit right into their group, acted like he always had belonged there. Cared for them as much as they cared for him it seemed.

“You doing alright?”

He nodded towards Dutch as he came up. Gestured to his ankle at the questioning glare sent his way. “Turned it something fierce I think. But I'll be alright. We need to get out of this weather, Dutch. Arthur says you found something?”

“Cabin up this way,” he motioned with his head, “found it a few months back when I was coming back over the Grizzlies. It was abandoned then. Hopefully no one has decided to shack up there in the time since.”

Here's hoping. One thing had to go right for them at least. “How much further?”

“We can save some time if we cross the river.”

The river that was twenty feet wide and over ten feet deep? Was Dutch insane? Even from here he could hear the roar of the water, could see the glistening of the rapids as they crashed into the rocks. “And how might we accomplish that?”

“There's a bridge,” the man motioned in front of them, once again trudging through the snow. Hosea could see it now, the faint outline. Snow had started to settle on the wooden posts, but only one side it seemed. That was because half the fucking bridge was out. Hosea held the lantern up, watching the light dance across the boards. The railing on the right had collapsed, the boards all slanting in one direction, half submerged in the water. The left railing was leaning as well, rotten and torn. Hardly looked like a bridge anymore. More like a decaying tree.

“Dutch, we should go around, find another way.”

No one had used this bridge in a long while. They must be on an abandoned logging road. Most of the trees here were young, the scattering of trunks visible, poking up out of the snow like gravestones.

“This will do just fine,” Dutch insisted. In fact he had taken the first step forward. Gripped the decaying wood in one hand, lantern held high in the other. Stepped out onto the first plank despite his protest. It seemed to be holding. One step, a second, a third. Hosea felt his heart pounding, could see Arthur watching with a grim face. Dutch had made it halfway. The boards were groaning, protesting against the weight. If Dutch fell in then Hosea would kill the man. After he and Arthur dragged his body out, that was. Three quarters of the way now. Slow and precise steps. Not too fast, but not too slow. Waiting long enough to ensure the next plank would support him before taking the next step. Hosea let out a breath when the man stepped on solid ground. Let out a laugh when the man threw his hands up in triumph.

“Okay, Arthur,” Hosea took back his own bag and nudged the boy forward. “You're next.”

“Maybe you should go,” Arthur wasn't as certain as Dutch had been. But the bridge had held under Dutch and Arthur was perhaps only a third of his weight. Hosea placed a hand on his shoulder, urged him forward.

“Go slow, keep close to the left side just like Dutch did. You'll do just fine and I'll follow up behind you.”

He watched the boy nod and take the first step. Hesitated, gripped the railing tightly. Then straightened as though he had found his resolve and kept going. Dutch was on the other side, his voice firm, a continuous reassurance. Halfway now. Hosea noticed he was holding his breath again, let it out as his heart pounded. Arthur must have had a hold of that railing in a vice grip, because he almost stumbled when part of it broke off. That really made his heart race. Dutch was somehow keeping his cool, didn't seem to panic in the least. A godsend that because Arthur was close to it. Had seemed to freeze there on the bridge. But only for a moment. Then he started to move again, a little faster now. Like he couldn't get off the damn thing quick enough. Dutch reached out, managed to grab his wrist, pulled him onto solid ground in a crushing embrace. Gave him a pat on the back before releasing him with a proud compliment. Now it was his turn.

Hosea swallowed, shouldering the bag, reached out to grab the railing. The wood was soft under his grip, cold and slimy. He could feel the boards shift under his feet, sagging from the weight, but they seemed to hold well enough. Hosea edged himself along, one step at a time, heart racing all the more. He was going to kill Dutch, he really was. Out of all his harebrained ideas this was by far the most ludicrous. And for Dutch, that was saying something.

Halfway now. Almost to the point where Arthur had stumbled. Could see the gap in the railing just there, where the wood had been ripped free. He paused in his steps, leaned forward to grasp the railing. Kept shuffling on. Could feel the boards creaking. One particularly loud groan that made him wince. Took the next step. That's when his damn ankle decided to give.

Landed on his knee with a curse. Torn out the railing as well trying to keep himself up. The planks beneath him weren't too keen on the impact either. One of them gave way, just below his knee, could feel the cold water splashing, soaking his pants. Dutch was calling out to him, Arthur was nearly in a damn panic. Hosea waved them off, hollered back out that he was fine, that he just needed a damn minute. Tried to haul himself back up.

God damn railing was nothing but splinters now. Shit, it might be better to just crawl from here. His heart was pounding so fiercely that the sound drowned out the river beneath him. He forced himself to move, glanced up just in time to see Arthur making his way back across the bridge. The damn fool. Hosea yelled at him to get back. He hadn't a clue if Arthur had made the idiotic decision on his own or if Dutch had sent him to help, being the lighter of the two.

Cold fingers reached down, grasped at his arm, hauled him up. Hosea wasn't sure what had happened but his ankle now refused to bear any weight. Arthur didn't ask, just seemed to know, positioned himself against his side so he could lean on him. Then they began the slow hobble, wincing with each step. More due to the sounds than the pain. The eerie creaks and groans only served to make his heart race even faster. It would bust out his chest at this rate. Three quarters of the way there. Only about five feet left. They could do this.

Or could have, if luck didn't have a sadistic sense of humor. The plank gave way on the next step, their weight too much for it to bear. The shock of the cold water hit his leg first, chasing all the way up to his hip, the realization he had fallen in slowly sinking in. Turned into outright panic as his head went under, nothing but water surrounding him. Under him, above him, all around him. He managed to right himself, to get above the surface, the cold stinging, like a thousand knives driving into his skin, stealing his breath away. Caught a brief glimpse of bridge, or what was left of it, as he was pulled downstream. Noticed it was empty. Tried to reach out, to call out, a vague hope of trying to find Arthur. Arthur had fallen in, was here somewhere. Realized just then he was still holding something. Not something. Someone.

Arthur's head broke the surface near him, their arms still entangled with one another as they tried to fight against the current. He was coughing, sputtering, sounding just as desperate as he was. The world disappeared from his view as he was pulled under again. Darkness surrounding him, the icy water flooding his senses, threatening to pull away all reason. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore, reaching out clumsily to try and hold onto the boy. Had to hold on. Had to get to above the surface. Had to get to shore. To grab onto something, anything.

Above the surface again. Another pained gasp. Could hear Arthur do the same. Wanted to shout an encouragement to him, but his chest was so tight and his lungs refused to do anything more than breathe. He hit something then. Something hard and solid, a pained gasp torn from his throat. It turned into a full out cry as his arm was wrenched backwards. Whatever he had hit, Arthur had not. And the current had dragged him on, the river wanting, no demanding to take the boy.

Hosea willed his fingers to grip, willed his arm to pull him back, to keep him there despite the pain. But it was no use. His gloves were not good for gripping in the first place. His fingers were solid lumps of ice underneath. Even in ideal circumstances he wouldn't have been able to hang on. And these were anything but. It was a second, just one single second longer. And the weight that had been there suddenly disappeared.

And Hosea was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter! But fairly quick posting.

He felt nothing. Not the cold of the air around him, nor the icy sting of the water that still threatened to take him, couldn't feel the deep ache in his bones that had been there just moments before. He didn't notice the blood, tiny pinpricks of what should have been warmth welling along scrapes of exposed skin, along his cheeks and his chin. Hadn't noticed the gash in his arm right at the elbow, a chunk of fabric torn free after having been slammed into the rock. Didn't even notice he was moving, a monumental struggle, his body acting on its own accord as he slowly dragged himself to shore. His self-preservation outweighing his emotional desire to simply give in. He wasn't thinking. Couldn't think. Didn't even know where to start. All he knew was the dread, the shock of the situation hitting him like a fist to the gut, leaving his insides twisting and turning. Leaving him completely empty. How could emptiness feel this heavy?

Hands on his arms. Seen rather than felt. A voice on the wind, louder now, in his ear as those hands pulled him forward. A breath on his cheek as the grip of the current let him go, weight supported on his hands and knees. Panicked and terrified words he couldn't grip on to. Repeating themselves, the same words over and over again, like some sort of mantra or speech. To the hell with speeches. It wouldn't change anything.

His limbs were being twisted and contorted. Clothes being torn off of him. Snowflakes stinging his exposed skin, freezing in clumps on his eyelashes, nearly blinding him. Still felt none of it. Could only focus on that ache, the bitter dread threatening to devour all rationale and reason he had left. Weight on his shoulders just then, Dutch mere inches in front of him, face full of panic as he wrapped a dry coat around his shivering frame. Knew he was freezing. Could see the tremor in his limbs, could hear chatter of his teeth, but he was so numb he hadn't even noticed until now.

“Oh god, Hosea,” Dutch's voice, still carrying on, still repeating the same thing as though the man could find nothing else to say. Fingers fumbling with the buttons on the coat, trying to pull it closed around him, trying to stave off the freezing chill that he knew in the back of his mind was there. Still couldn't feel it. Not like he should. A vast hollowness was threatening to consume him, and he was doing everything in his power to gain some sort of control back. To get his thoughts in line, to make the damn words come out.

“Arthur.”

  
The one single word that had been lingering on his lips. A question, a statement, a plea. So little and so much meaning wrapped into two syllables, a mesh of sound that shook him to his core more than anything else. Arthur had been there. He _had_ been there. For the briefest of moments he had him. Now he was gone. Had slipped right out of his damn fingers. It wasn't right, none of this was right. He should be here. Should be safe and dry and here _!_ Not lost, not alone, not torn away from them so cruelly. 

Dutch was still in front of him,spouting new words, ones that were supposed to be reassuring but they lacked conviction. False promises, hands running the length of his arms, up and down in a quick and frenzied motion, an attempt to stir some sort of warmth in him. To the hell with him.

“Arthur,” he forced the word out again. Couldn't seem to say more. _Shouldn't_ have to say more. Dutch had seen it all happen. Had been right there. Now he was here, fussing over him, focused on him. Focused on the wrong god damn thing. He was out, he was okay. But Arthur...

“I know,” Dutch breathed another false reassurance. The hell he did. If he knew he wouldn't be here. He would already be searching, would be doing something useful, and not wasting time. They didn't have time to waste. The emptiness that had been overbearing moments before was quickly filling up with rage, and weak as he was he pushed Dutch's lingering hands away, mustering up the worst snarl he could offer. 

“Go find him!”

Three words, forced out between the chattering of his teeth. His voice rough and broken. Words filled with vehemence. Why did he even have to say them in the first place? Dutch should know. Thought that the man was smarter than that. Man didn't seem put off by his words, nodding in effort to show he was listening.

“I will, Hosea, I promise I will, but...god Hosea, you're freezing!”

“Then think how he feels!” he couldn't help but yell. Wanted to scream, to cry, to tear the man apart limb from limb. Him and his stupid ideas, his lack of foresight, his inability to do one simple thing. To go save their boy. “Dutch, he's still in the river!”

Saying it made it so much worse. Made it real. Something he couldn’t avoid; something he couldn't pretend never happened. And it cut him. Deep and sharp, a type of pain he hadn’t ever experienced. That he _never_ wanted to experience. Stole his very breath away, a broken cry more akin to a gasp escaping him as he hunched over. Dutch in his ear, saying something, words he couldn't comprehend. But the warmth left him, hands no longer kneading his arms, the wind nipping at him as he was left alone. Looked up to see Dutch stumbling, lantern held high as he pressed his way downstream, his coarse voice lost in the night as he called out.

This wasn't happening. Couldn't be happening. He should have pushed Arthur ahead, should have shoved him towards Dutch. Dutch would have been able to catch him before the bridge collapsed. He'd be safe then. He'd be safe if they had just gone around. He'd be safe if they had never tried crossing that bridge. He'd be safe if he hadn't come back for him. Wouldn't have had to come back for him if he hadn't messed up his ankle. Wouldn't have messed up his ankle if he had dropped off that roof instead of jumping. Wouldn't have had to jump if they had left after filling the first bag, before Colm showed up. Would have never ran into Colm if they hadn't robbed that house to being with. Would have never robbed the house if only he'd asked Dutch where the man got his information. Could have talked him out of it if only he knew.

Would have, could have, should have...the thoughts running wild through his head, each one threatening to drown him more than the last. Threatening to consume him. Devour him. Until it broke him. That heavy, empty feeling returning, settling in his bones. Or perhaps that was the cold. Didn't know, couldn't bring himself to care. Already knew what Dutch would say, those horrible and wretched words lingering on the tip of his tongue as the man dropped in the snow by his side, eyes wide with sorrow and regret. Couldn't say them, and for once Hosea was grateful that the man was speechless. He didn't want to hear it. Didn't want it to become real. Wanted to pretend, if only for a few fleeting moments that this was all a nightmare.

“We need to get you out of this cold, Hosea,” Dutch's voice was grief-stricken, and Hosea felt something break inside him, rupturing as though it was crack in thin ice, and he found himself slipping through the crevice that had opened. Didn't even realize he was crying until Dutch pulled him close and held him firm. Didn't realize he could even cry like that. He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that. Wasn't sure how long he cried for, but knew there was nothing left to come out. Dutch had moved first, but he sat frozen, unwilling and unable to move. But Dutch wouldn't let him stay. Wouldn't leave him behind. Hosea barely even registered the man pulling him to his feet and helping him to hobble along. Couldn't even recall the journey up to the cabin. Didn't know how long it had taken. Time was a foreign concept to him. Just remembered leaning against the side as Dutch broke the lock, pushing his way in first, gun drawn. Remembered the cold biting at him, clumps of ice frozen in his hair, clinging to his eyebrows, hanging just in the edge of his vision that was already clouded and muddy. Then Dutch appeared a moment later, and he slung an arm over his shoulder, helped him to hobble inside. Damn his ankle. Damn this weather. Damn everything to hell.

It was even colder and more depressing inside than it had been out by the river. Old and forgotten, drowned in a layer of dust that was kicked up as they made their way in. He found himself coughing, and the pain tearing at his ribs was from more than just the emotional turmoil that had all been wrought from him. There was a chair near the dark fireplace, covered with a sheet that was piled high in clumps of fur and droppings. Seems like they were not only ones to seek shelter in here. Dutch wasted little time in pulling the sheet off, easing him down. Said nothing as he wadded up the material and stuffing it into the fireplace. Busted a stool that was nearby; tossed that in too. Flames licking at the dry material eagerly, springing to life, casting an eerie glow about them.

Dutch disappeared from the room just then, but he hardly noticed. Could only watch the flames dance and twist, eagerly devouring the fuel it had been given, growing stronger with each passing breath. Just as Arthur had done. All but fourteen years young, wild and angry as though it was the only thing he knew, probably _because_ it had been the only thing he had known. Anger had kept him alive. Had kept him safe. Until they had found him. Until they had taken him in. Until they gave him a chance. And now fate had ripped him away. Not fate...failure. They had failed to protect him. _He_ had failed him.

Hosea could still remember, could still feel his fingers grasping, closing around the boy's arm, holding him there. Could still feel the weight, and then the heart-rendering moment that followed after when it was gone. Hand outstretched, searching, fingers closing on nothing. Empty.

Dutch was by his side again. Didn't remember the man coming back into the room. He had a pile of clothes with him, all moth eaten and covered in filth. Watched as Dutch shook them out as though that would make them all the better. Then the man was moving, talking again, more to fill the silence than to say anything of importance. Hosea let him, let the words wash over him as he was moved and jostled about. Wet clothes peeled off of him, left him shivering in that dank cabin for the briefest of moments. Dressed in warm clothes, a blanket draped over his shoulders, another one on his lap, cocooning him. A hat pressed onto his head. Not his own; that had been lost in the river.

He was shaking now, a fierce shiver that tore through his body, teeth chattering as Dutch edged the chair closer to the fire. Hands running up and down his arms again, coming to rest on his shoulders. His voice soft but firm, as though he had gained some his resolve back.

“You stay here and get yourself warm. I'm going back out to find him.”

“Ain't gonna be nothing to find, Dutch,” Hosea's voice was hardly above a whisper. Words rough and raw, his throat tight, almost felt like he was going to choke.

“You don't know that.”

“Been too long,” he breathed, another sob trying to force its way out, the reality of the situation all too true. “If he didn't drown, he would have frozen by now.”

“Hosea,” Dutch breathed his name, sat down on the arm of the chair near him. “Hosea, my dear friend, look at me.”

Those brown eyes were full of sorrow, glistening with unshed tears, but overshadowing that was something else. Determination. His voice supported that when he spoke next. Solid and unshaken, words coming without hesitation or struggle.

“I know that things have not gone favorable for us, these past few hours. It is unfortunate, and if I could change things I would. I would lay my life down for you, for Arthur, but things don't work like that. And I know that right now, things may look bleak, and perhaps they are, but I will be damned if I just give up. So I'm going to go back out there, and I'm going to stay out there for as long as it takes, and I'm going to find him. And I'm going to bring him back home.”

Bring him home. But not alive. Hosea didn't miss that the man had failed to specify that part. Hadn't said it because despite the attempt at his riveting speech, the man knew there would be no finding the boy alive. No... he was going to out there to find a body, so that they would have something to bury.

All of fourteen years young, and just like that, Arthur was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ahem* It's a bit heavier on the Hosea angst than I intended, but I figure he would feel something awful knowing he was that close to having him, being able to keep him safe, and having him torn from his grasp like that. 
> 
> I really debated whether or not to do this from Dutch's POV or from Hosea's, but I felt that it just was screaming Hosea, so this is the end result. And Dutch had to be panicking something fierce, not knowing whether to help Hosea or to keep going after Arthur. But...things can (and will) get worse...
> 
> And I'm not sorry. 
> 
> Okay, maybe I'm a little sorry...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to spoil you guys and post a day early. You can thank me later :)
> 
> **Warnings for this chapter**
> 
> Some heavy mentions of child abuse (though nothing too graphic) and a minor (past) character death that is referenced (not graphic).
> 
> Just so that you are aware.

There weren’t many things that he was afraid of. Not anymore. No, his daddy had beaten that out of him long ago. Lyle Morgan was a downright bastard, and the one thing he refused to deal with was the nervous and frightful little boy that been left behind after his wife had died. He believed that fear made you weak, that it made you soft, and that it made you worthless. And the one god damn thing he wouldn’t have was a worthless son.

So Arthur had learned to hide his fear. Masked it with anger. It was easy to be angry. Easy to yell, easy to scream, easy to hit. Could take a beating himself well enough. His daddy had taught him how to do that as well. Had taught him how to handle pain. Pain didn’t scare him. That simple fact is what gave him more courage than what was probably wise. Thinking that nothing could hurt him as long as weren’t afraid.

So the idea of busting into a house and robbing it hadn’t scared him. Jumping off that roof hadn’t frightened him either. Running from Colm, from the law? Hadn’t bothered him in the least. Neither had climbing up that mountain, trudging through the snow as the skies darkened. The cold biting at his fingertips was more a nuisance than anything else. Crossing that bridge had given him a bit of a pause, a slight apprehension, but he had managed well enough. Still hadn’t been scared.

Watching Hosea fall? That had terrified him.

Arthur couldn’t remember a time when he had felt that afraid. Not in all the times his daddy had beat him black and blue, cursing and screaming in a drunken stupor, words laden with disgust. Not in any of those nights he had spent tired and hungry and alone on the streets. Nothing had seemed to rattle him. Until that moment. And the peculiar thing about it was the fact he weren’t even afraid for himself. He was afraid for _him_. 

It was a feeling he couldn’t quite comprehend. Arthur never had anyone to worry after before. Never had any reason. Had seen his daddy taken in by the law. Had seen him swing in the gallows. Hadn’t felt anything then. Other than his momma, whom he only had faint recollection of, his daddy was all he ever had. They didn’t visit folks and folks didn’t visit them and it seemed like his daddy preferred it that way. And after his daddy was gone, and he was on his own, there weren’t no one he cared for or trusted. Until he met Dutch and Hosea. 

Hadn’t trusted them at first either. Weren’t his fault that he stole from them. They should have kept a closer eye on their things. And they was dressed well enough, so they shouldn’t have missed what little he took. Of course he had been wrong then. They had chased him down, had cornered him. Arthur had been prepared to fight, wasn’t even bothered when one them held up a gun. Expected to be beaten, maybe shot, maybe dragged to the sheriff’s where he would spend the night in the cell. Sheriff knew him real well, that man did. Called him a  _miscreant_ , whatever the hell that meant. Nothing nice, he knew, not that it really bothered him, seeing as how he didn't like the sheriff all that much either. 

But Dutch and Hosea hadn’t done anything like that. No. Oddly enough they let him keep what he had taken. Had offered him a job. Didn’t like the idea of that. Not at first. His daddy had sneered at him once when he asked about working a job. He had been eight, maybe nine. A rancher at the edge of town by the name of Callahan was looking for help. Arthur had fancied the idea of working with horses. Callahan was a bit strange, but kind. Quiet and tall, thin with a beard and mustache, a funny looking hat. Had questioned him when Arthur offered to help. Had finally relented, saying Arthur  _could_ work there as long as his daddy said it was okay.

It was not okay. He had been beaten something fierce that night. Had been left bloody and bruised, his daddy on a tirade about how no son of his was going to be shoveling horse shit for a living. Arthur had spent most of the next day nursing his wounds. And then the following day there was talk of a murder in town. Callahan had been beaten during the night, and was found hanging from the rafters of his barn that morning. His daddy denied ever doing it, but that memory had always been there, had always made him wonder. He hadn’t asked for anything after that.

But these two strange men had offered some work, and his daddy weren’t there anymore. Said they needed help on a job. Told him it would pay well. Couldn’t go wrong with money. Could never go wrong with money. Money kept food in his belly and gave him a place to stay when the nights got too cold. So he agreed, had gone with them. Figured it couldn’t hurt.

So they had gone out, got him clean clothes, made him go wash up in the hotel. A strange but welcoming occurrence. Arthur had never had a real bath. Never knew that water could be so warm. They never had the means for a tub at home and his daddy never took him anywhere to get clean. In the times he got real dirty he’d jump into the nearby pond, scrub himself as best he could in the cold water. Usually he was fit to run around covered in filth, but Dutch had  _insisted_ he clean himself up. Said it wasn’t right or proper to be meeting this fella all dirty and disheveled. Which was even funnier cause they was fixin to rob him. But they were the fools paying for everything so he didn’t complain. At least not too much.

It had felt strange to be clean and all trussed up in the expensive cloth. He rather liked his threadbare attire. All worn in at just the right spots that didn’t pinch and pull at his skin when he moved. But the boots were the worst. His old ones may have been falling apart at the seams but at least they were comfortable. These new ones were stiff and left him feeling clumsy. Wasn’t sure he could even run in them if he had to. But he reckoned if things came down to that he could kick them off and run barefoot. He had done that plenty of times growing up with his daddy, after all.

They had coached him on what to say, had told him what to do. Dutch and Hosea were going to talk to the man about some business. Said to pretend that he was their son who had come out from California. Dutch and Hosea would distract the man and he was supposed to go off, find something of value. And so he had. 

His daddy had taught him how to steal. By the time he was ten he had gotten real good at picking pockets. But that weren’t enough for him. What had his daddy called it? A waste of time. Had said the real value was inside homes. People didn’t carry their valuables with them after all. So his daddy had taken him robbin inside, had told him to watch and learn. Had beaten him until he got it right. 

A natural. That was what Dutch had called him. Arthur had walked away with a money clip, a gold watch, a bag of jewels and a belt buckle. All neatly tucked away in his pockets, all traces of his theft covered, the man none the wiser. Dutch had kept the man's attention while Arthur slipped out the front. Had met Hosea outside, and the pair had taken off with the man's wagon.

By the time everything was sold they had made a good sum. They had handed him a stack of bills, more than he had ever seen at one time in his short life. Near a hundred rested in his palm there. Heavy and foreign and so exquisite. Couldn't believe that this was his. That they were just giving it to him. And Dutch had reminded him that they weren't giving it; no, he had earned it. That he had done a damn fine job. That he was a natural. So much admiration in that voice. So much warmth. Something he hadn't ever heard before. No matter how good he'd done in the past, his daddy would always sneer, would find something that he did wrong, would hold onto that.

Not fast enough, not quiet enough, not strong enough.

He wasn't used to hearing praise.

Decided that he quite liked it.

So when the pair left, he made up his mind to follow.

Didn't ask where they were going.

They didn't ask why he had come.

Didn't have an extra plate for dinner so he had eaten peaches out of a can. Didn't have an extra tent so he had slept out by the fire covered in a heap of blankets. Ate some biscuits for breakfast, finished the rest of the coffee they handed his way. First time he'd ever had coffee. Wasn't too sure what to think of it.

Was more apprehensive of what was going on. Dutch and Hosea pulling down the tents. Packing the wagon. Putting out the fire. Seemed they were leaving then. Of course they wouldn't stay. Not after robbing that man blind. Man would figure out soon enough what happened and he'd know it was them. Wasn't too sure what to think of that. He didn't _mind_ being alone. After all he had clean clothes, and enough money in his pocket to last him a few weeks if he was careful. He'd be okay.

Hosea had climbed into the wagon. Dutch had gone that way too. Had stopped only to turn, to look at him with a raised eyebrow. _“You coming?”_

He didn't need to be asked twice. Grabbed his few measly possessions and had clambered into the back. Had watched the town that had been his home for the past fourteen years disappear into the distance. And he couldn't have been happier.

They had gotten him his first gun. A cattleman; weren't nothing fancy but Hosea had helped him carve his initials in the stock. Dutch had spent hours practicing with him. Would laugh whenever Arthur showed up to camp with a bag full of empty bottles, eager to learn more. Had only turned him down when they were spending more money on ammo than anything else. But he was crack shot, or so Dutch had said. Told him he had a dead eye. Whatever that meant. Still it felt good.

Felt even better when they gotten him his own horse. Spent days teaching him how to care for Bandit. How to ride Bandit. How to get him to come when he whistled. How to get the horse to stay when it was needed. Whatever it was that they taught him he devoured it as though he was dying of thirst. Drank it all in so quick and fast that he was nearly overwhelmed. And for the first time in his life, he was happy. He had found something worth living for. And he would be damned if it was going to be taken away from him just like that.

So when Hosea fell there was no hesitation on his part. Arthur had stepped back onto that bridge, had seen no sense other than what was happening directly in front of him. Dutch had stopped him, not to pull him back, but to take the bag of cash from him. Then urged him on, _“Go get him, son. Bring him back safe.”_

One step at a time, one foot in front of the other. Inch by inch, step by step until he got there. Hosea wasn't too much bigger than he was. Wasn't that much taller. It was easy to pull him up. Easy to support his weight. The man was hurt, that much was obvious, but he had him now, and he would get him across safely.

Then the bridge had collapsed.

The river had taken them.

He didn't even notice when he was alone. He was coughing, choking, sputtering, thrashing. Doing whatever he could to keep his head above water. Didn't do too good a job with it. Current kept pulling him under. Kept accidentally swallowing water when he was trying to get air. Kept trying to right himself, to get a hold of something. Didn't help that he couldn't _feel_ anything. Hands slapped against rocks, fingers scraping on hard craggy surfaces. His jacket snagged on branches from a fallen tree before tearing, the material too thin to take the abuse.

Back underwater. Dark and cold and fast and dizzying.

Head above water, breathe before it was too late.

Rock to his right. Try and grab it.

Can't grab, fingers don't work.

Back underwater. Try to get back up.

Try to take a breath. Swallowed water instead.

Then he was falling. At least he thought he was.

Thoughts confirmed when he hit water again. Like hitting solid ground. But solid ground didn't give way like this. It left him disorientated. Took a moment for him to realize the rush of the water had died down. Took a moment to realize he could feel solid ground. Took even longer to realize he couldn't breathe. Tears at his eyes as he coughed and retched, lungs seizing as they expelled all that water and more.

Breathe.

He was still coughing. Still spitting.

He needed to breathe.

Hard ground under him as he crawled out the water. Numbed fingers curling in the dirt. No snow here. How far had he come? Dirt was frozen. Perhaps not too far. Far enough though. More coughs, a whimper as he pressed his forehead to the dirt, curling in on himself as he tried to will himself to breathe. It shouldn't hurt this much to do something so simple.

But he managed. One breath. Enough to keep from passing out. A second breath. Enough to cough more water out. A third breath...enough for him to raise his head up. Enough for him to gain some sense of his surroundings. Shaking, shivering, frozen.

“'osea?”

The words far too weak and small to have come from him. He coughed up more water. More phlegm. Leaned over to spit it out before pushing himself to sit, eyes scanning the river in front of him. Cold and dark and unforgiving. Arthur shivered. Tried to banish that fear. Fear made you weak. He couldn't afford to be weak.

“Hosea?” voice sounded better now. More like himself. Called out again, louder this time. Got no response. Felt that fear again. Creeping in. Blinding him. He hadn't gotten Hosea across.

He hadn't been fast enough.

Hadn't been strong enough.

Memories of long past, dark and chilling clawing its ways forward. A boy of six, playing a game with his mother. One they would always play just before dinner. He would hide, and she would try and find him. He would find the best places to hide. She always said so. This time he hid real well. Knew because she hadn't found him.

He waited a long time.

But she never came.

He had given the game up. Had crawled out from behind the curtain.

Had found her in the bedroom. Like she had laid down to sleep. But it wasn't nighttime. He reached out to wake her up. To ask why she hadn't come to find him.

She was cold. Real cold.

So he had put a blanket on her. Had felt her forehead, thinking maybe she was sick. She did that for him that one time he hadn't felt well. Maybe she just needed soup.

Went to find soup.

Found his daddy instead.

“ _You as good as killed her boy.”_

Should have checked on her sooner. He hadn't been fast enough.

Should have taken her to the doctor's. Hadn't been strong enough.

Should have done something. He had done nothing.

Hadn't done the right thing then. Hadn't done the right thing here.

He as good as killed his momma.

He as good as killed Hosea.

Couldn't stop the sob that came out. Clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle it. Head bowed between his knees as he shook from more than just the cold.

“ _No son of mine is gonna cry.”_

He wiped his eyes furiously, sucking in one breath after another. Trying to get a hold of himself. He didn't cry. He didn't _deserve_ to cry. This was his fault. He had been the one to screw up. Too weak, too slow, too pathetic. Couldn't do one thing right. Worthless.

Hosea had been nothing but kind to him. He could recall the evenings spent playing dominoes, of lying by the fire as he listened to the man read from his book, of the man sneaking him an extra piece of candy when Dutch wasn't looking. Hosea had helped him to set up his tent, had gotten him a journal with a brand new pencil when man had caught him doodling in the dirt. Had been teaching him his letters. All of that was gone now.

Because he couldn't do one simple thing. And Dutch?  
  


Dutch would never forgive him. _“Bring him back safe.”_

The one good thing he had in his life. It was all gone. Because of him. He should have never gone with them. Should have stayed back home. Then they'd be okay. And he'd be...well, alone. Probably cold and hungry, but he'd be okay. Right now...right now he was freezing, and a downright ache was settling into his bones. Knew he needed to move. That he had to get somewhere warm if he wanted to live. Wasn't sure if that _was_ what he wanted. Wasn't like there was much left for him to go back to.

He looked up as he heard the sound. Hooves heavy on the ground. Slowing down as they approached. A lantern held high, casting shadows that spun around him. A man dismounting. The fear was returning. His heart hammering in his chest as he shivered. Hands in the dirt behind him as he edged himself backwards. Icy water lapping at his fingers.

“Well well, look at what we have here.”

His voice like honey. Thick and sticky and nauseatingly sweet. The fear was starting to get the better of him. But his daddy had taught him how to handle his fear. Perhaps the only good thing his daddy had done. So he swallowed it down, hid it deep inside even as the barrel of the gun came to rest under his chin, forcing his head up.

“If it ain't Arthur Morgan himself,” the man breathed, a crooked smile adoring his face. “Good to finally meet ya.”

Fear made him weak. And he was anything but weak. So he mustered the best smile he could, did his best to seem indifferent as he answered.

“Hello, Colm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah....
> 
> But seriously, F* you Lyle!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really struggle writing Dutch. Especially young Dutch. So apologies if he doesn't read quite right. This chapter ended up being longer than anticipated, but I don't think many will complain.

He had been fifteen when he left home. About a year older than Arthur was now. But unlike Arthur, he had left by choice. The kid hadn't had much to say in regards to his past. Just that both his parents were dead. That he had been on his own for the past several years. Looking at him back when they first met had confirmed as much. Worn and ragged, covered in filth, cheeks hollow and eyes sunken in. Surviving, but only just, and a damn fine thief he was. Dutch hadn't even noticed his satchel missing. It was Hosea who had caught the boy running, slipping away through the streets. It had also been Hosea who pulled a gun on him after they had cornered the boy. The kid might have made off with the past two weeks of work, but Christ was there no need for that. Dutch had convinced Hosea to let him be. Had offered that money in exchange for a deal. Because he had a plan.

He had a plan for everything, it seemed. For as long as he could remember, plans were all but a part of his life. When his father had gone off to war, Dutch had become the man of the house. He had a plan then. Worked to keep the household running despite his indifference with his mother. Working odd jobs, scrimping and saving seeing as his mother wasn't much inclined to do anything. Figured he only had to keep this charade up long enough until his father returned. But then his father had been killed in the war. So his plans became a bit more elaborate, seeing how he couldn't keep on going as he was.

It always felt like he was fighting, inclined to argue with the way the world was. He could break his back working his fingers to the bone while others lorded over him with a sneer lingering on their lips. Just because that was what the world saw fit to give him. Started making another plan to go about changing that. Because if there was anything he disliked more it was the fact that the world didn't give two shits for the poor, the downtrodden, the underdogs. The world, it seemed, was like a game of poker. You were dealt a hand and some got lucky, while the rest had to settle for a piss poor result that would get you nowhere. And to the victor that won the pot would go the spoils; spoils that would be hoarded and never shared despite how desperate their neighbors were.

To Dutch it seemed as though the game was rigged. Because rich men and the government always came out on top. And the more times they won, the stronger they became, so much so that the simple folk, like he and his family didn't even have a chair at the table to sit in, let alone enough chips to play. Never mind that the tattered cards they were given were of no use. They couldn't win, not like that. Not unless they helped themselves, that was.

He was thirteen when he stole for his first time. The stage had been just outside the bank, had been in the process of being loaded. The clerk had turned away to collect something off the ground. Dutch had walked by, had grabbed a bag, had kept going. Had gotten clean away. Had kept some of that money for himself. The rest had been given away. Neighbors, friends, good people who were simply trying to survive. Weather had been poor that year. Crops were failing. People were struggling to get by. That money had gotten them through the winter, and the bank hadn't even noticed its disappearance. The result had left him yearning for more.

It hadn't taken long for his mother to catch on. That she was the first surprised him. They fought something fierce, what with her claiming his head was always in the clouds, that she needed him to focus on reality, to actually do something worthwhile. Now add in his petty thefts and she all but threatened to turn him into the law. Had gotten real fine at spinning a yarn, already had the sheriff under his thumb. He would be in for a world of hurt if she turned him in. It would ruin everything. It infuriated him, because he was doing all this for her. To keep her fed, to keep a roof over her head, to help her _survive_.

And it wasn't like he was common crook. After all he made a point to not take from someone unless they could afford it. Would spend hours walking through town, watching folk come and go, waiting for the right target. Someone dressed up all fancy and neat, someone who looked important, someone who was just passing through. Didn't target anyone who lived there. Always travelers. A firm rule he stuck to. Would causally engage them in conversation, would see how keen they were. Rich men were often not wise men, too blinded by their greed and wealth to notice anything foul running amok. Often had them eating out of one hand, all the while robbing them blind with the other. And once the deed was done he would all but disappear, waiting until the suspicion died down before distributing his success.

He had tried to explain this to his mother, but she wouldn't hear of it. And so Dutch had packed his things, had left it all behind, and set out to make his own fortune. Eager to live by his own rules, and not the one society deemed he must abide by. Had run on his own for a time. Confident, with a fair amount of cash already saved up. Lived out of hotels, or camped in the wilderness between towns. Eventually had met Colm. Man was a crooked as they came, but he had a wealth of information, and his sources were good. Colm liked him for his verbosity, and they had teamed up for a while.

But Colm hadn't appreciated his charitable demeanor. Had called him delicate. Would laugh at him whenever Dutch brought up the image of a perfect society, where one did not have live by any constraints. Didn't seem the man had any true plans for the future. His only focus was to survive, going from one big score to the other. Spent that money on frivolous things. Drinks and women, gambling it all away in saloons. All the while sneering any time Dutch so much as donated a quarter to wounded veteran, and the one time he had given a stack of bills to an orphanage had nearly sent the man into a rage.

They argued. A lot. More than he had ever with his mother. Dutch had distanced himself, dissuaded by the man's aggressive stance on how things should be handled. Colm had a trigger finger. Liked to shoot first and ask questions later. Whereas Dutch preferred tact and finesse, Colm appreciated brutality. After one job left a man dead and one crippled, Dutch had cut ties completely. Had gone off on his own.

Did well enough. It was harder to swindle on his own. But his words were always quick, his mind sharp, working up one elaborate scheme after another. Claimed to be an investor. Said he had found some land that had gold. Pretended to own a coal mine. He read, more often that he should, but the words spoke to him, gave him new opportunities to try. Most were successful. Some more than others. A few were spectacular failures. Left him limping away with what little pride he had left. Failure didn't discourage him. If anything it just led to more plans.

And sometimes those plans involved Colm. They crossed paths, more often than not. Hard to avoid one another when you resided in the same state, let alone on the outskirts of the same town. Dutch paid him no heed and Colm returned the favor. Most of the time. Every so often he would stop by, offer a cut on a job if he helped out. Sometimes Dutch took him up on it, especially in times he was struggling for money. Didn't much care for it, seeing as it always left a bad taste in his mouth, but he was more determined to survive, to do whatever it took. Survive long enough until his next big plan was a success. Had gone off on his own again. Had tried to swindle a man. Only to find out the man had robbed him blind. Could have put a bullet in him. Decided to recruit him instead. One of the best choices he had made since leaving home.

Hosea was a far cry from Colm. Level headed, grounded to reality, but appreciative of his dreams. His insight on the wretchedness of the government was quite aligned with his and they had formed a fast friendship. The pair of them could work wonders together. One ploy after another, scheme after scheme, the money all but falling into their laps. They kept enough for themselves and gave the rest away. They were doing well for themselves. Well enough to not have to bother with Colm anymore.

Dutch should have known to cut ties. Knew that the man was nothing but trouble. But he had good information. Solid leads. The scores were often big. So he had kept in touch with the man. Would join up when he managed to land a decent job. Hosea had been less reluctant to join in. Had come along only once. Then had opted to stay behind for the rest. It was a delicate balance. Trying to appease Hosea, trying to keep himself in Colm's good graces just enough to keep that last thread connected should he need it.

Then they had met Arthur. Dutch and Hosea had been working to scheme a man, parading themselves as businessmen who were looking for investors. They knew the man was loaded, but for some reason he seemed rather reluctant to fall for their scheme. Had been hesitant, and it certainly didn't help that his wife was a bothersome nag. If only they could search the house, find something worth while, and cut their losses. They were wasting time, and time was a precious thing. The more time that they wasted on this, the less time spent swindling someone else.

Hosea had been skeptical. Wasn't sure that they should involve the boy in the matter. But if Arthur had as much delicacy in robbing houses as he had in picking pockets, Dutch wasn't worried in the least. Plus it had been good seeing the boy get clean, getting him proper clothes that actually fit. Arthur had played the part perfectly, had slipped away without even Dutch noticing. Had returned without flaw. Had helped Hosea to steal the wagon. Dutch had spun his story of seeing a couple of men take off with it, coyly describing some of Colm's men. Had taken his leave after that.

It had gone perfectly. The boy was a damn natural. And the smile that had graced his lips when they handed him his share was heartfelt and genuine in a way that Dutch hadn't ever seen before. Even all the times he had given money out on the streets, to those in need. It never had affected him like that. He wasn't sure why it had gotten to him so, but Arthur had been keen to stick around. And Dutch had been keen to keep him around. And his presence hadn't been awkward or uncomfortable.

He had never fancied himself as a parent. Had been too invested in his own survival to really invest time into taking care of someone else. Of course he watched out for Hosea, and Hosea kept an eye out for him in return, but they could look after themselves well enough. Adding Arthur to the mix may have seemed like work at first, but it was chore he had tackled with joy. Hardly felt like work at all. The boy had been a delight to have around, despite the bitter facade he attempted to hide behind. Oh they fought, of that there was no doubt. Arthur had his own ideas of how things should work, and had no issues in voicing his own opinions. He didn't shy away from arguments and more than once he seemed intent on doing something so erroneously stupid that Dutch often found himself questioning the boy's self-preservation. Seemed as though the boy had no fear. Seemed he had even less common sense at times.

He shouldn't have let him cross that bridge.

The thought brewed quietly in the back of his mind, overshadowing him like a storm cloud that was threatening to let loose. The pounding of his heart in his ears was like thunder, his voice lost on the wind as he called out, throat tight and sore from the recent abuse, of all the words and cries that had been torn from him this past night. He didn't even know why he was calling out. It wasn't like he was expecting the boy to just come walking up with a placid expression on his face and answer. But still he had to try.

The skies had cleared some. Wisps on snow still floated on the wind, shaken free from the branches of the trees, settling in drifts along the land. Clouds still passed overhead, blocking out the light from the moon, but even so the land nearly glowed in front of him in the way only freshly fallen snow could. Calm and quiet and chilling to the bone. The river still roared next to him as he passed by the spot he had found Hosea. The man had managed to get himself out almost all on his own. Had all but collapsed into grief, unable to say more than a handful of words at once. And Arthur...he hadn't seen the boy. Not since they had fallen in. Hell, Dutch didn't even know if the boy could swim.

_"If he didn't drown, he would have frozen by now."_

Dutch knew there was truth behind those words. Didn't mean he wanted to believe them. Hosea may have given up all hope, but he refused to submit. Refused to believe that it had come to this. Arthur was strong, he was a survivor. And as bleak as things looked now, he had to have faith that the kid would pull through. But with each passing minute, that faith was beginning to crumble.

He should have stopped Arthur.

In retrospect the idea itself hadn't been that unsound. There was no telling how much longer the bridge would hold and Hosea was struggling to get to his feet. Dutch's focus had been on getting him to safety. He _could_ have gone himself, but Arthur was smaller, he was lighter, and reasonably the only that should have gone after Hosea. Arthur had _wanted_ to go after Hosea. Had almost gotten him across. And Dutch had watched them both disappear.

A panic had washed over him. Stark terror mixed with utter disbelief. Trying to fathom the cruelty of life as he watched the scene unfold before him, seemingly frozen to the spot, unable to move. Then it hit him, the urgency, the realization that he needed to act sooner, not later driving him forward. The bags of cash dumped in the snow, forgotten, lantern held firm in trembling fingers as he moved, legs almost threatening to give out under him as he chased the figures downstream.

Hauling Hosea out of the icy waters, knowing he had to get him warm, words coming out so fast he wasn't even aware of what he was trying to say. Trying to reassure him, trying to apologize, trying to explain...and not making a lick of sense. Hosea an absolute mess, shivering and shaking and fighting him. Yelling at him. Pleading and begging to find Arthur. He didn't even know where to start. Had stumbled downstream, had called out as though expecting a response. Gave himself five, maybe ten minutes before he abandoned the chase. He didn't want to. Gods he didn't want to. But he was torn between two certainties.

If he kept perusing Arthur, he would lose Hosea. And if he saved Hosea, he would lose Arthur. A crueler choice could not be made. And all sense and reason persuaded him to save the one man that he had for sure. And so he had gone back to Hosea. Had gotten him somewhere warm. And now he was back out here, clinging onto the one last shred of hope that was buried way down deep within his soul. More like denial than hope, he reasoned.

He shivered, pulling the buckskin coat closer. His own coat had been left back at the cabin, far to wet to be of any use. Digging through the worn dresser had revealed a poor compilation of clothes that were mere wisps of their former selves but at least they were dry. Still hadn't done much for the cold. He trudged on. Called to the wind again. Voice echoing hollowly around him.

Dutch wasn't sure how long he could keep going. Lantern held high, the light sweeping across the terrain. Murky shadows playing against the white of the snow. His heart seized at every misshapen lump, fearful of what he would find as he drew near. Relieved to discover that it was only a rock, a fallen tree, a clump of grass. Time and time again. Trepidation and alleviation. The morbid verity that he was searching for body dwelling in the far recesses of his brain that he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge.

Because deep down in his heart he knew that Hosea was right. It had been too long. However it had happened, drowning or freezing...neither were pleasant ways to go. But worse was the fact he had been alone. He didn't deserve any of that. The boy had spent enough time being alone that at the very least he should have had someone with him when he...

Dutch couldn't bring himself to finish that thought. Swallowed despite the ache in his throat, head bowed as he pressed on. He would find him, would find him if he had to spend all god damn night out here. If only to have some sort of closure. To give the boy a proper burial. He deserved that at the very least. Six god damn months. It felt like it had been so much longer.

They had finally managed to tame some of his anger, had started to cultivate his subdued fascination, his recent enthusiasm that had cropped up once he had started to trust them. He had also put on weight, his cadaverous appearance replaced by hearty vitality, the presentimental look in his eyes all but fading. Six months ago Dutch and Hosea would have been none the wiser to the wild delinquent that prowled the streets balancing on the edge of survival. Probably would not have given him a second look if fate had not brought them together. Would have never imagined taking him in had they not crossed paths.

Now he couldn't imagine a life without him. It was all too sudden. Too cruel. Too real. Reality slamming into him all the more as he came to a stop, eyes barely seeing it as the light brushed against the misshapen form that was tangled in the branches. Near the shore, just an arm's length away. Dutch could easily reach it, fingers brushing over the worn leather, working it free of the brambles.

He had Hosea had a hell of of a time getting the kid to wear something decent. Seemed as though he was intent on sticking with the tattered rags he had run amok in. Had, after a while, been able to convince him to keep the new boots, to stick with the clean shirts. They had been attempting to get him to wear a decent jacket which they managed to succeed some of the time. Yet the one thing he had refused to part with was his hat. The one time they had suggested he had turned near damn feral. Had actually growled when Dutch had gone to remove it, fingers clenching the brim and plastering it to his head. They hadn't tried again.

Holding it now seemed almost sacrilegious. Like some sort of violation. Dutch swallowed again, running a thumb over the brim as though he was attempting to memorize each crease and burn it into his memory. To have something to remember him by. He finally pulled himself away, eyes searching the river, focused on the brambles, hoping and yet dreading on what he might find.

The current was still swift, still eager, racing amongst the rocks, pulling at the tattered brambles that had held the keepsake captive. There was nothing there. And Dutch was beginning to suspect that that would be the case, no matter how hard he looked. Because despite his wants, and despite his desires, Dutch knew that finding Arthur in all this mess would be a near impossible feat. Sometimes wants and desires had no place in this world. Sometimes there was no changing things no matter how hard you tried.

With a heavy sigh he pushed himself to his feet, the hat clutched close to his chest in one hand, lantern held high in the other, slowly working his way through the night.

At least he would have something to bring back to Hosea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *heavy sigh* Yeah....


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Struggled a bit with this chapter. No real warnings, just a bit of creepiness...

The first thing Colm had done after dragging him away from the river was strip him. Arthur had been left shivering and naked in the dirt, half curled up on himself as his cheeks burned in the humiliation. Trying his best to ignore the laughs and jeers coming from the men that surrounded him. There were only four of them, and while he had faced worse odds with the law just earlier in the night, this situation this seemed so much worse. Arthur didn't like this kind of new vulnerability. 

Yet as it was, he could now see the aftermath of what the river had done, the evidence littering his body. Cuts and gashes, scrapes intermingling with splotches of blossoming color that ran the length of his torso, wisps of blood leaving thin trails behind, the crimson hue a stark contrast on his pale skin. Most alarmingly was his leg. A copious amount of blood covered his skin, stretching from his knee clear down to his ankle, trickling languidly to one side and dripping to the ground beneath him.

He let out a hiss as his ankle was grabbed, his leg stretched out in front of him. It turned into a curse as a bottle of gin was dumped unceremoniously over the bleeding wound, sending a wave of fire through his limb. He tried to jerk away, but the fingers dug tightly into his flesh, holding him there, a mendacious smile on Colm's face as he chided him.

"Come now, Arthur. Wouldn't want that to get septic. We'd have to cut your leg off. And then what use would you be?"

There was a blanket dropped on his shoulders just then, Arthur grabbing it quickly and pulling it close around his shoulders, letting out another curse as the stinging only amplified, followed quickly by a burn as the man wiped at the gash hastily with a cloth. It only encouraged more blood to appear, more pain as it was wiped again. More gin, the bottle empty and tossed to one side before Colm wound the bandage around the length of his leg.

It was still stinging, throbbing relentlessly as the last of the cloth was tied off. Then Colm had let him go, and Arthur wasting no time in drawing his leg back under him, hunching beneath the blanket. It offered meager protection, but at the moment it was the only refuge he had, and he clung to it desperately. Colm did not seem to be bothered by his predicament, the man merely taking a seat on the opposite side of the fire. 

They had made camp a few hundred feet from the river's edge in a small glade nestled at the base of a sloping hill that held the remains of dilapidated farm house, vague whispers of a fence line encircling them. There was a barn a few yards away, looking to be in better condition than the house, and Colm had wasted no time in sending one of his men to scope it out. Another had taken off on horseback, heading upriver and disappearing into the night. It left Colm and one other man alone with him, and Arthur briefly considered what his odds in fighting against them would be. 

“So tell me,” Colm spoke suddenly, “what are you doing way out here, all on your own?”

Arthur didn't answer him. There was something in his voice he didn't quite trust. Perfunctory and disconcerting. Or perhaps it was driven by the fact that he hadn't met the man till now. Not really. He had heard Dutch talk of the man, had seen him in passing in times that they were canvassing the town. One time Dutch has suggested that Arthur come along on a job with the man, only to relent when Hosea launched into a fit and vehemently opposed the idea. Dutch hadn't brought up the topic again, but Arthur had noticed each and every time the man disappeared, sometimes for several hours, sometimes for days. He always came back with a fair share of money, and reassurances that where it came from was of no matter. 

Part of him had been jealous. Had wanted to join in despite what Hosea had said. Felt as though he was ready to partake in some of the bigger scores. Wanted to prove his worth. Surely as bad as Colm was, Arthur could handle him. Now that he was here, sitting mere feet in front of the man, Arthur was no longer as certain as he had been in the past. 

“I asked you a question, boy,” Colm's voice had dropped just then, settling on the verge of displeasure. Arthur met his gaze, took note of the hard steely glare, noticed a glint of ire brewing within those dark eyes. It lasted only briefly, the impassioned sneer dropping into a calm facade, a gentle smile gracing his lips. “You can talk to me; Dutch has told me all about you. I mean, we're practically friends.”

His voice had been cloyingly sweet, enticing a shiver down his spine that was not induced by the cold. Arthur hugged the blanket tighter, edging closer to the fire as though its warmth could chase away the disquieting feeling. He briefly considered his options, of just taking off into the night, wondering how far he would be able to get. 

Not far he decided. Naked as the day he was born, still shivering as water dripped from his hair, dampening the blanket beneath him, not to mention that his leg was hurting something fierce now. Arthur knew he was in no condition to be traipsing around. Not that he had anywhere to go. Not anymore. The thought stung more than he thought it ever would. He should be used to it after all. 

Three years. He had spent three years ambling about, no place to call home after his daddy had been taken in. Sleeping where ever he could, stuffing himself under porches, wedging himself in corners that were down forgotten alleys. Alone and waiting for the sun to bring a new day, another chance to make something of himself, to _find_ something tangible he could hold onto to keep his head above the ever cascading waterfall that seemed to want to drown him. 

Then Dutch and Hosea had found him. Had given him that buoyancy he so desperately needed. Had given him the smallest glimpse into what life could be. Only for him to now understand that he didn't deserve it. He had done nothing to earn such kindness, and any chance that was left to prove otherwise was long gone now. No one could come back from doing what he had done. 

So he stayed where he was, resolved to accept his fate, his eyes fixated on the fire, teeth chattering as his body slowly warmed despite the raw ache that had seemed to have burrowed into every fiber of his being. A part of him knowing, deep down that he didn't even deserve this fleeting benevolence. That if anything he should have been left, forgotten along the riverbank. Or more to the point, he should have been left on the streets. It was easier being on his own, he decided, having been conditioned to expect the nihility that life had offered him thus far. The brief respite he had been given only served to remind him of what he didn't have, of what he could never hope to have. Nothing more than a pretty dream. That fear was creeping back. He swallowed. 

“How was that score you stole off me?” Colm wondered, disrupting his contemplation. The confusion must have shown easily on his face, a laugh slipping free of his lips as the man sat up, his hands held lazily over the fire as he basked in the warmth. “Dutch didn't tell you, did he?”

Arthur shook his head, eyes still downcast. Dutch never told him where he got his leads from. That wasn't his prerogative. Dutch simply told him what to do and when, and that was all there was to it. He wasn't much for thinking or for planning. Had no patience for it. 

“Spent a week tracking that one down,” Colm carried on the conversation as though they were old comrades who had recently reunited. His voice was eerily calm, almost with a hint of amusement. “A lot of legwork went into that. Went through all that trouble of making those plans, figuring out every last detail. Caught up with Dutch a few days back, invited him to join. He's a real fine man. Good and honest, reliable...and he goes on and turns me down.”

Once again Arthur didn't answer, had instead found a bit of wood to focus on, vision going hazy as the man continued almost without missing a beat. “He's his own man, of course. Big man like him doesn't need to come running to little ol' Colm, not anymore. No...he gots his own folk now, thinks highly mighty of himself. But I figured that was fine. All the more money for us, right?”

He paused just then, Arthur glancing up as the man moved to his feet. Colm stood near the fire, hands on his hips, staring into the flames, a faint hint of a scowl gracing his features. He turned just then, circling around near him, Arthur scooting himself away as the man knelt near him. 

“And then...then we show up, to pull off this job that we've spent a week preparing for...only to find that someone is already working it. Imagine my surprise when I see that it's none other than Dutch...good ol' honest Dutch. As good as stabbed me in the back; and he says he preaches nothing but truth.”

“Dutch is full of shit.”

He hadn't noticed the other man come up behind him. His focus had been on Colm, had been trying to keep his distance. Now he felt trapped; Colm mere feet in front of him, this other man a step behind him, the fire off to his left. Arthur felt his heart skip, knowing just then that there was no way he could just slip off and disappear into the woods. It wasn't going to happen. 

“Now Conner,” Colm seemed to be chastising the man behind him. “Mind your language; we have a guest.”

“Dutch's lapdog?” Conner sneered, his boot prodding him in the backside, forcing him a hair closer towards Colm. 

“This is Arthur Morgan,” Colm let out a laugh, hands stretching wide as though he was presenting him. “Dutch says he's a fine shot,” the man paused, a pensive look on his face, his voice hushed as he spoke next. “A real fine shot. Strong too...didn't say anything about how fine looking he was.”

“A pretty boy?”

“A pretty boy,” Colm laughed in response. The words sent a chill down his spine, or perhaps it was the way the man was looking at him, eyes wandering up and down his frame. Arthur pulled the blanket tighter, trying to banish the unnerving thought creeping into the back of his mind. He desperately wanted Dutch, desperately wanted Hosea. Knew that wasn't going to happen. His own fault. He tried to banish the rising fear. 

“That score was gonna earn us a lot of money,” Colm continued, voice falling back into an impartial tone. “We spent all that time and effort, only for it to be stolen right out from under our noses.”

He heard Conner snort, “It's your own fault. I told you that you shouldn't have run your mouth. But you couldn't help yourself, wanted to brag to the big man. Thought it was funny to gloat about you knowing 'bout a big score and now he gots our money; you think it's funny now?”

To that Colm grinned, rolling his eyes as he slung one arm across his knee. “My brother tends to disagree with some of my choices. But the way I see it...Dutch has something of mine. And now?” the man reached out, fingers curling around Arthur's chin to tilt his head up, “Now I have something of his.”

Arthur pulled back, letting go of the blanket to swat his hand away. “Don't touch me.”

The words came out as a growl, fueled by the desire to get away. Amicable touch was not a concept he was familiar with; he barely tolerated the affection given to him by Dutch and Hosea, whether it be a pat on the back or a clasp on the shoulder. A result of too many years spent enduring the harshest of beatings doled out by his daddy. A reaction he could barely control. The first time it had happened with them, Dutch and Hosea had been taken aback, but had seemed to understand, had given him the space he so desired. But Colm was not like Dutch. He was not like Hosea. Hadn't worn the same shocked expression they had. No, his was one of indignation. And he lashed out like a viper.

Fingers worked into locks of hair, closing into a fist, yanking his head back. Colm's face a mere breadth away, rancid breath nearly choking him out as the man answered. “You best watch your mouth boy. I saved your life; you know what that means?”

Arthur was too busy clawing at the hand in his hair to answer, a soft whimper of pain escaping him as his head was wrenched back further, Colm leaning into whisper in his ear. “It means that I fuckin' own you. You're mine now.”

He was released, pushed forward with a half-hearted shove, Arthur's hands landing on the dirt beneath himself, bracing himself. He reached up gingerly as if to rub the tenderness from his skull, but paused, deciding instead to pull the blanket around his shaking form. Colm had moved to his feet, had walked away, leaving him there, Conner still standing behind him. Arthur let out a huff, resorting to anger, a tactic he knew only too well.

“Dutch will kill you for this,” he breathed. It only earned a laugh, Colm turning back to look at him.

“You think Dutch gives two shits about you? If he cares so much, then where is he now?”

Arthur swallowed, the fear returning. Tried to get a hold of it, tried to tap it down. Wasn't even sure _why_ he had said it. The words had come without thought, but something deep inside yearned for it be true, desperate for the proof, for any proof that someone might actually care for him. Care _about_ him. But his entire short life had been filled with nothing but false promises, a never ending reminder that he wasn't worth the hassle. Memories of his daddy, of the man watching him crawl away after a vicious beating, words echoing in his mind. ' _Only reason you still alive boy is because I got an obligation. Ain't no one else that gives a shit about you.'_

His daddy may have had an obligation, but Dutch did not. The man had no reason to look after him, let alone care for him. Ain't no one that had any reason to care for him. If there had been a reason before it was long gone now. He swallowed again, the ache all to present and ingrained in his bones. 

It hurt. 

“Nah,” Colm went on, “Dutch don't care about no one but himself. He is a fine, charismatic man, he is. Likes all them fancy words, but as soon as he gots what he wants, he all but washes his hands of you. He done did that to me. Seems like he's done that to you as well.”

Was that true? There was the smallest sliver inside of him that spurned the idea, but it was buried beneath a layer of doubt that was festering just under the surface of his skin. Knowing that part of what Colm had said was right, that Dutch did like to talk, spouting words that were far beyond the grasp of his simple comprehension. Ideas and dreams of living free, of making their own way in life. Hosea had told him once that Dutch liked to dream, and that there was nothing wrong with dreams. Now he was starting to wonder if those dreams had ever included him. 

He was shaken from those dismal thoughts, the thumping of hooves echoing through the clearing as the man drew near. He watched, grateful for the brief interruption, Colm's attention distracted as he addressed the newcomer. Arthur recognized him, the short funny looking man who had taken off earlier. The man swung down from the horse, passing something over to Colm. Something that was all too familiar. Something that made his heart seize.

“What you got there, Aiden?”

“Trekked about a mile upstream,” Aiden answered, watching as Colm turned the hat over in his hands. “Nothing that I can see up there, but I did find this. Could be nothing. Ain't Dutch's, that's for sure.”

No, it wasn't. Yet Arthur would recognize it anywhere. Hosea's hat was about as unique as they came. And if they had found his hat...he couldn't breathe. It was just another reminder on how much he had screwed up. If only he had gotten them across that bridge...

“Think Dutch went an' ran off?” Conner's voice rang out from behind him. The man must still be keeping an eye on him. 

“You let me worry about ol' Dutch,” Colm retorted, circling back around the fire. He paused, eyes still grazing over the hat. Then without any prompt he tossed it, watching as it landed in the dirt in front of him. “That your hat, kid?”

Arthur didn't answer, eyes fixated on it just in front of him. He didn't even know where his hat was. Couldn't bring himself to care. Fingers brushed on the brim, running along the curve, the material cold beneath his touch. His fingers closed without thought, gingerly picking up, and after a breath, placed it on his head. It sent a shiver down his spine, feeling all kinds of wrong; heavy, empty, foreign, _cruel_. Undeserved.

He kept his head bowed, the blanket clutched around his shoulders, trying desperately to ban the overwhelming feelings that were starting to suffocate him. He may have been on his own before, but he had never felt this alone. Not until now. He could hear the others talking, a new voice entering the fray, stealing a peek from under the brim of the hat. Watching as yet another man joined them, having returned from his foray into the abandoned house. 

“Found some food, a few trinkets. Managed to get these,” a bundle of cloth was shoved into Colm's hands. Arthur watched as the man unfurled it, a pensive look on his face. It broke away into a smile, followed by a nod of approval as he turned, dumping the items at his feet. 

“At least have the decency to get dressed, Arthur,” Colm berated him in a sing-song voice, “Didn't Dutch teach you nothing?”

He didn't really need to be persuaded, quickly shrugging himself into the plain white shirt, and the tattered jeans. Pulled the blanket back over his shoulders when he was done. He felt a little safer now. Still was shivering though. From the cold or the nerves he wasn't certain. Colm was sitting across the fire again, watching him still, that same perverse grin covering his face.

“Don't you worry,” he said softly as though it was supposed to be a reassurance. “Colm's gonna take good care of you. Cause you ain't Dutch's boy anymore.”

Dutch's boy...Dutch had often called him son. Had given him that faintest bit of illusion that he had once cared for him. How he would give anything to have that back. Arthur closed his eyes again, Colm's words washing over him as the man continued. 

“Oh no...best get used to things, cause you an O'driscoll now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Dutch has just stolen his first score off of Colm. Perhaps not the wisest decision. I can only imagine how angry Colm is...and yeah...
> 
> I'll see you folks in a couple of days!


	6. Chapter 6

He had been kicked awake. It was a peremptory command, a new pain blossoming in his side as he struggled to sit himself up. He didn’t even remember falling asleep. Night had passed and the early morning sun was peeking through the trees, forcing a gentle calmness that was sardonic in comparison to how he felt. Sometime during the night the fear in him had hardened, had become something solid and heavy, and it threatened to drown him if he wasn’t careful. Arthur let out a sigh, hand pressed against his head, trying to banish the pounding beneath his temples.

He felt horrible.

There was no other way to explain it. The bumps and bruises he had gotten from last night’s venture had mutated from a minor inconvenience to something that was outright unpleasant. A deep ache had settled into his bones, his muscles stiff and tender, protesting at the sluggish movements as he tried to push himself to his feet, his head swimming. It felt as though he had drank too much.

He had done that once before, a few months back. They had successfully pulled of a stagecoach robbery, had made off with a few hundred dollars. Half the earnings had been dropped off at a local orphanage, the rest they used to barter for supplies. It had been Dutch who bought the case of beer, hauling it back to camp, and they had spent the night drinking away. It was the first time Arthur had had any liquor. Foul tasting and wretched, but he drank it anyway, encouraged by the amiable teasing that had come from Dutch and Hosea both, the men caught up in their own blissful euphoria. They had all felt wretched that following day, and had done nothing but lounge around the fire, strewn upon the ground in self-inflicted misery. How he so wanted to do that here. But he wasn’t there, and he weren’t with Dutch and Hosea. Not anymore.

So he pushed himself to his feet, determined to not let his misery show, to face this new threat head on. His leg still hurt, but bore his weight without much difficulty as he gathered his wits about him. Arthur took a breath, taking that fear that had settled deep inside him and let it brew to the surface and show as anger. Anger that he knew all too well; that he was all too familiar with. That he relished in. Because anger kept him safe.

The O'driscoll’s were tearing down the camp, buzzing around like a hive full of bees, each one tending to their own task. Tying bedrolls together, stocking saddlebags, kicking out the remains of the fire. Arthur stood where he was, watching the scene unfold, unsure of what to do, or if he was even to _do_ anything. They hadn’t told him anything other than that they were leaving.

Conner prodded him forward just then, the heel of his palm digging into the space just below his shoulder, edging him towards Colm. “We gonna hogtie him?”

The thought sent his heart aflutter. Bad enough that he was here, but so much worse if he was to be tied down. He wanted to be free, unhindered and capable of running when and if the chance came. Dutch might not be coming for him, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to stay with this lot if he could help it. His fingers dug into his palms, hands balling into fists as he sneered, ready to lash out if that came to be the case, damn the consequences.

Colm’s laugh was chilling, a lively smile on his face as he answered. “Come now, brother. That won’t be necessary. Arthur promises to behave. Don’t you, Arthur?”

He didn’t answer. Not a first. Stood there with the same angry snarl, hoping it was somewhat convincing of his stance. Then he flinched as fingers dug in the back of neck, a voice deadly in his ear. “You answer when spoken to, boy.”

A warning. A threat. A reminder of where exactly he stood. He could talk back to Dutch and Hosea, could argue with them till the day turned dark, and they would grow aggravated with him but despite all his bickering they never came to a head. It never turned physical; they had never hurt him like his daddy had done. It had given him some confidence, the smallest amount of pride. But now, with those fingers digging into his flesh, he was driven back to years before when he small and weak; defenseless. Waiting for the pounding to cease so that he might be able to slip away with what little dignity he had left and lick his wounds in private.

He tried to not let it show. Wasn’t sure if he was successful. His voice coming out in a hiss as the grip tightened. “I won’t cause no problems!”

Colm seemed satisfied with that answer, nodding towards them gaily. “Smart boy. You’ll best be riding with Conner, til you learn your place. Got some big plans today, Arthur, you should be excited!”

Excited was the last thing he was. But he didn’t answer, muttering a curse instead as he was pushed forward again, directed over to one of the horses there. A large shire that nearly dwarfed him, shuffling with agitation as he mounted. Or tried to mount. He was so much larger than Bandit, and his leg, doing as well as it was, seemed to protest as he tried to get his foot into the stirrup. Finally he managed, only just, Conner grabbing his leg and hoisting him up and over. Arthur grit his teeth as the pain flared, eyes wandering down as he spotted the reigns, the idea coming to him just then. A voice whispering in the back of his mind.

He had only learned how to ride a few months prior. He wasn’t the best at it, but he knew enough, and he supposed a horse was a horse. Consciously he reached down, fingers brushing against the leather, determined to take hold, to take off. He flinched as Conner grasped his wrist in a crushing hold, a snarl on the man’s face.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned. “I ain’t have no problems putting a bullet in the back of your head.”

Arthur let out a grunt, yanking his arm away. The idea had seemed solid, but the more he thought about it, the less he was sure. The Shire might be fast, but it could not outrun a bullet. And he did not doubt the man’s words. So he settled his hands in front of him, gripping the saddle horn as Conner mounted up behind him. His heart was pounding, racing off all on its own as they started off into a canter. Colm was at the front of the line, the other two following, Arthur and Conner taking up the rear, following the river downstream.

Arthur took a last glimpse behind him, taking note of the area they had left behind. Almost desolate now. The faint whispering remains of the fire, smoke still drifting skyward from the dying embers and the scattered remains of refuse from the previous night were the only indications that someone had been there recently. Seemed to be more a bad dream than reality. Still couldn’t come to terms with how suddenly everything had changed. He reached up, adjusting Hosea’s hat on his head, the only comfort he had left. Then he grit his teeth, pushing the brooding thoughts from his mind, bringing his focus back to the here and now.

Because one way or another, he was getting out of here. _Bad business_ , Hosea had told him that one time he had bothered asking why he couldn’t go along with Dutch. _Best to_ a _void the likes of him_ , Hosea had answered, when Arthur had pushed for more information. He may have only known Hosea for a short time now, but he trusted the man's judgment. Just being here he could feel the unsavory chill that ran down his spine, burrowing into his bones. Could taste the bitterness on his tongue. He wasn't sure how he was going to get out of this. 

“ _You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for, Arthur. You can figure this out,”_ Hosea had told him once. They had been practicing his letters, and he had grown frustrated, ready to write the whole thing off. Determined that he never would understand, had been ready to give up. Had told Hosea as much. Had thrown the book in disgust, declaring his surrender. Hosea had been disappointed in him. Not for ruining the book, but for his attitude. Had chastised him.

_Don’t you ever give up. Not so long as you’re still breathing, you keep pushing. Whether it be reading or otherwise, you hear me?”_

Arthur closed his eyes, remembering how he had sighed, had given a vague promise. How he had picked the book up out of the mud, had done his best to clean it off. How he had kept trying, how he had finally managed to get through that last bit as rough as it had been. How proud Hosea had been.

Afterwards, Arthur had taken those words of wisdom and applied to everything else. Had used them to keep pushing until he got things right. Riding, shooting, stealing, learning. Whatever it might be. And it had seemed to be serving him well. Until last night. Until he had messed once more. A grave error. Wasn’t like he could just pick the book up out of the dirt this time.

Even so, he was still determined. He may have let Hosea down, but he sure as hell was going to try and do right by him now. Even if was the last thing he did.

* * *

He had come back to the cabin with a heavy heart. It had taken several long minutes to work up enough courage to push his way inside. And once he had, he found himself frozen as he met the other man's eyes. Quiet, attentive..searching...waiting. He was waiting for him to say something. Dutch stood there in the entryway, mouth opening and closing, trying to find the right words. Could only utter an apology, but his words seemed to fall on deaf ears. Hosea had turned his gaze back towards the fire, still bundled up in the chair as Dutch had left him. At least he had more color to him now, even with the morose expression he held.

Dutch finally willed himself to move, crossing the gap between them. Arthur’s hat was still clutched in his hands, far heavier than he ever imagined it being. There was so much he wanted to say, to utter reassurances, to let him know that they would be okay. But how could they be? There were so many thoughts swirling through his mind, each one racing the other, trying to get ahead and take the lead. But each time he tried to grab onto one, to formulate some kind of speech, he found himself faltering.

Realized then that that was because there was nothing he could say. He dropped his head instead, eyes downcast as he held out the hat as though it was some sort of peace offering. Hosea took it hesitantly, holding it in both hands, before cradling it against his chest in a gentle embrace. Still said nothing.

Dutch reached out, hand resting on the man’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze before he moved on. Debated, trying to decide what he should do, if there was anything to do. Let out a sigh and forced himself to keep moving. He might be exhausted, but he couldn’t bring himself to rest. Worked his way around the cabin, searching through more cupboards, pulling open drawers, fiddling through the remains of a poorly stocked pantry. Wondered briefly if he should try and get them something to eat. Dutch felt himself swallow, his stomach heavy as though it was full of lead. There would be no supping for him tonight. Forced himself back to the bedroom, pulled off the last sheet he hadn’t already appropriated and set about tearing it into strips.

In all the chaos he had forgotten about Hosea’s ankle. Had been more focused on getting him warm. On trying to find Arthur. He had only been successful on one endeavor. The man didn’t even look his way when he reentered the room. Only let out a grunt as his leg was lifted, the boot worked off gingerly. He had amassed some decent bruises, deep purples and dark blues set into the skin, slowly spreading up his leg, down through his foot. Some good swelling as well.

Dutch was no doctor. They were miles away from any town. He hadn’t even a clue how they were going to get back down to civilization. They could think about that later, he decided, doing his best to be of some damn use here. Didn’t seem broken, but definitely messed up in some way, painful too if any indication by the groan, the hiss of air as Hosea grimaced. Dutch muttered apologies that could scarcely be heard as he wrapped the strips of cloth around it. Bound it as tight as he dared. Remembered from somewhere that you should elevate such injuries. He dragged a chair from the kitchen over, rested Hosea’s leg on it, then retired himself to the couch across the way.

What a god damn fool he was. They had lost the money, had lost Arthur, were stuck up here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing. The reality harsh and bitter and cruel. Like a fist to the gut, and he could barely breathe. Dutch pressed the heels of his hands to his face, rested them against closed eyes, a faint attempt to rub away the pain that was starting to bloom there. The significance of the situation was sinking in and it nearly engulfed him and he was trying to claw his way back to reality before he sunk too deep.

He couldn’t change what had happened. God knew that if he could, he surely would. His heart was heavy in so many ways, a pain he had yet to quite understand. He had lost people before. He was no stranger to death. His father, his aunt, an older cousin who had also fallen in the war. Had been to more than one funeral, had seen more than one person buried. None of them had struck him as hard as this had.

He drew in another shaky breath, trying to banish the tears that were glistening beneath closed eyes. He could not lose it here. Hosea was already on the brink of a complete breakdown. Had already collapsed in grief. If he had to be anything, he had to be strong. Had to keep to keep himself together. If not for himself, than for Hosea. Dutch let out a sigh, doing his best to distract himself, turning somber thoughts to one of action. If he could make a plan, keep himself occupied, then he wouldn’t falter. It was something, at least.

“In the morning...I think that...I think that I will head out again. Head back down the mountain, see if I can find our horses. Get them back up this way, and we can get you into town. Get you looked at proper.”

It seemed solid. Sounded good in his mind. It would take time, he knew, to journey down that way. But with fair weather and daylight, he no doubt could move faster than when he had first come up. Yes...it seemed good. He heard Hosea sigh, his voice distant as he answered.

“Sure.”

One word. Dutch didn’t know what to make of that. It sounded so hollow and empty, echoing off the walls around him. There was no malice, no anger, no regret in his tone. Just complete indifference. It would be easier for him to deal with it if Hosea would just blame him. Could handle it better if he were screaming and yelling, flinging accusations in frenzied manner. This quiet, uncaring demeanor he had taken on was unsettling.

But he had a plan, and knew, or at least hoped, with time that things would get better. They would be alright. Get off this damn mountain and head towards greener pastures. Maybe get out of this state altogether and start somewhere new. Dutch lay himself down, staring at the ceiling. Thoughts abuzz in his mind. Tried to close his eyes, tried to get some sort of rest to come. Knew it wasn’t going to happen.

Opened his eyes. Stared at the ceiling again. Counted his breaths. Held it at one point. Felt his lungs protest, his chest burn. Let it out in a rush. The fire crackled across the room, shadows dancing across the wall, creating shapes on the ceiling. He tried to see if anything in particular stuck out at him. Found his mind wandering. Too damn hard to focus on anything. Then with a relenting sigh he pushed himself up. Gathered his coat that had been drying by the fire, shrugging into it.

Hosea seemed to be sleeping. Or at least resting. Eyes closed, chin on his chest, Arthur’s hat still clutched in his hold. Dutch thought about waking him, briefly, if only to let him know he was headed back out. Then choose not to. The man needed his rest, and there was no reason to raise his hopes. Going out there was a fruitless endeavor but Dutch knew he couldn’t rest until he found something. He would keep trying. Would keep clinging onto that thin thread of hope that had all but unraveled inside of him.

Mind made up, he pressed his way back out into the cold, taking note of the sky that was beginning to change. The deepest, darkest bits of the night starting to fade away. Morning would be here soon. Would come in an eerie rush, bright and happy with no consideration of the bleak fortune that had consumed them mere hours ago. Perhaps in the growing light he might be able to find something substantial. Or perhaps he would once again come back empty handed.

He pressed on. Passed the same areas as before. Where he had found Hosea. Where he had found Arthur’s hat. Kept going. It was getting easier to see. Early morning light surrounding him, the sky a brilliant blue with no hint of the clouds that had been there earlier. It was getting warmer too. Felt good to be in the sun. Still didn’t do much for the chill inside of him. Tried to not dwell on it, his gaze focused on the river, searching for any signs.

An hour passed. Then two. The sun long up and starting to melt the snow, washing away the previous night’s storm. A tickle in the back of his mind telling him that he should turn back. That Hosea was probably wondering where he went. He dismissed that funny feeling, reassuring himself that the man would presume he was off chasing the horses down. Kept on walking.

Less snow here, almost faded away. Almost. A thin layer of mush, almost translucent, the dirt and grass just barely visible beneath. Until it was mussed, torn up into thick grooves, lumps of earth strewn about. Dutch paused for a time, simply staring at it, almost confused by its appearance. An odd sight indeed.

He knelt near the start, realizing just then it was a trail. Deer perhaps. He wasn’t sure, had never been the best tracker. Had never been much of a hunter. But enough of one that he could recognize the indents. Could tell that these were not made by a deer.

Horses. Or more precisely, one horse. Someone had ridden up this way, only to turn back. Could be anyone, he mused. Surely there were a few wayward souls that lived out this way. But they had been sticking close to the river, acting as though they were wary of getting lost. Who would have come up this way? The law? Maybe. But they usually stuck together. Usually didn’t wander off on their own.

Dutch pressed on. Following the trail as though it was a lifeline. Perhaps it was, seeing it was the only thing he had at the moment. Veered away from the river, through some of the woods. A necessity, seeing the waterfall ahead. The trail led through more woods and a down a gentle slope. Back along the river.

There was a cluster of prints here. Harder to see, the ground hard from the recent freeze. But the grass was mussed and flattened, leading away from the bank. He turned and followed it. Clear into a glade. Someone had camped here.

The farmstead was old, falling apart. Perhaps had been out here for years given all the mildew and rot. The roof half-caved in. The fence falling down. Dutch wandered about the house, had peeked inside, but it was just as empty and even more hollow the cabin they had found up the trail. The barn was even more sparse. He turned back towards the clearing, kicking at the fire with his boots. Knocking aside the logs, taking note that the fire was fairly recent. Still had a few warm embers there. Made him wonder who had been out here. Wasn’t like the law to hold up for the night.

He left the fire, toeing at the forgotten material strewn upon the ground. Kicked at an empty can of peas that had been left behind. Rested his hands on his hips, a stream of breath escaping him as he scanned the area. He could keep going, keep heading this way until he hit town eventually. Steal some horses. Or turn back and cross the river at a safe place, see if he could track their horses down. Either one was a gamble.

He could get caught in town. End up in jail or at the end of the noose. Hosea would be none the wiser. But there was no telling if he could even track down their horses. They could have wandered off. Could have been taken by the law. Stolen by strangers. He rubbed the back of his neck, contemplating his options. Divided in what he wanted to do. Finally settled on trying to cross the river, damn it all.

Until just then. Coming to a stop as saw it. Covered in mud and half torn, but recognizable. He knelt down, felt his heart pause a beat, before racing. Trembling hands picked up the cloth, turning it over so he could get a better look at it. The faint resemblances of a jacket. Or what used to be one. The same damn jacket that Arthur refused to part with. No matter how many times they had gotten after him, or how many times they pleaded with him to wear the new jacket they had gotten. One that was much thicker, warmer and heavier. The kid would do everything in his power to pretend to forget about it, to slip back into this ratty thing.

Dutch hated it with a passion.

And now, it was the most beautiful thing he saw.

Because it was here. Yards away from the river bank, discarded near a the remains of a fire. His breath caught in his chest, his heart pounding all the more as he moved to his feet. 

Arthur had been here.

Arthur had gotten out.

Arthur was _alive._

He was alive. Dutch found his breath, somehow found his voice, shaky as it was. Called out, his voice echoing around the glade. His heart pounding with new fervor. Circling around, searching through the trees, analyzing every shadow. Stillness, emptiness, quiet. He wasn’t here, not anymore. But he _had_ been here. His gaze dropped back down to the jacket, fingers gripping the material.

He was alive.

Dutch moved then, eyes focused on the ground, tracing the faint outline of prints that were strewn there. Arthur had been here, but he hadn't been on his own. No, someone else had been here. More than one person from the looks of it. He could conclude that whoever they were, that they had Arthur now. Friend or foe, he wasn’t sure. But they could have left him to freeze. Could have left him behind. They had done neither. And surely they wouldn't have bothered taking a body. There was no sense in that. No...Arthur was alive. He _had_ to be alive And he was somewhere...but where?

He cursed the lack of his tracking abilities. Wished he was better. Then shook his head. He could not afford to doubt himself now. Dutch swallowed, resolved himself, knelt near the ground, focusing as best he could. Shoved every qualm he held into the far corners of his mind. Encouraged himself. He could do this. He forced himself to study the ground, to pay attention to the faint indents, to the way they were headed.

East. He was sure of it. Had to be sure. Dutch pushed himself up, followed the tracks out of the clearing. Prayed that they would not be lost in the undergrowth. Muttered under his breath, more to himself than anything, his voice confident despite his uncertainty. Reassuring himself. 

“Hang in there, Arthur. I’m coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look...one ending that isn't *that* bad
> 
> Right?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Some attempted non/con elements in this chapter. Nothing explicit but you are warned.

They had stayed near the river for a time before turning back towards the trees, following a hidden path that ran into the woods and through a ravine. It was narrow thing, forcing them to slow their gait as they fell into a single file line, winding their way through an assortment of twists and turns. Eventually though, the ground leveled out and they had passed through the last of the trees, coming out into a wide valley with rolling hills. Colm was the first to react, pulling his mount to a stop, and the others reigned in shortly after.

Arthur hurt from the ride, short as it had been. His leg was throbbing, and there were new sores no doubt forming on spots of unbruised flesh. Not to mention the pain in his back. It was hard trying to balance without the aid of stirrups, and he had made things worse by the hunched posture he had assumed in a vague attempt to put as much distance between him and Conner.

So he was glad that they were taking a pause. He took a breath and tried to convince himself to relax, to ease some of the tension out of his body. When that failed he decided to try and distract himself, taking in the lay of the land. They had paused at the edge of the trees, overlooking the plains that stretched out in front of them. The grass was as high as his knees in some parts, swaying in the wind. There were an assortment wildflowers adorning the landscape, a mixture of color fading into the distance. Along the horizon there was another set of mountains, stretching towards the sky, seemingly cocooning the lands here.

He could see a rough trail, winding around the valley; it was wide enough to be a road, but seemed to be poorly traveled. Weeds and roots had sprouted up, splitting the packed earth. It seemed open and wild enough, and it held a certain charm that pulled at his heart. It was beautiful, he realized, but he was having trouble appreciating that beauty. In any other circumstance he would be thrilled to be here, to just spend the day taking in the sights, the sounds, the smells. But not now. Not anymore.

He watched with apprehension as Colm nudged his horse forward then, a pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes. Arthur turned his attention to the left, followed the man’s line of sight. There was another homestead here, just a ways off. It looked to be in far better condition than the ruins they had left earlier this morning. Someone lived there, if any indication by the smoke drifting up from the chimney. A ranch of some sorts, he figured, noting the shapes in the pasture. Cows, perhaps.

“This the place?”

Conner was the one to break the silence, had nudged his shire up so it was next to Colm. Arthur watched as the man pulled the binoculars away, passing them over to his brother a moment later.

“This is the place,” he sounded happy. Arthur didn’t like that sound; it was unsettling, and it sent a shiver through him.

“You tell anyone else about _this_ job?” Conner wondered, “I would like to know if we’re to expect any trouble.”

“I’m tired of your griping,” the man answered. There was a warning in his tone that made the hair on Arthur’s neck bristle. Conner did not seemed cowed by it however.

“You know damn well that Dutch set the law on us. Went to take that score on his own an’ feed us to the wolves, he did.”

Mildly Arthur wondered if there was any truth to that. Dutch had a tendency to disappear at times, to come back and not breathe a word of where he had been. Could Dutch have gone to the law? Told them that Colm and his men were planning to rob that homestead? It would make sense, seeing how the law even knew about it in the first place. But why would he, when they were planning to rob it as well? Wouldn’t that just cause more problems?

“Dutch may be a lot of things. Full of shite and piss, but he didn’t squeal. No, that man’s too much of a coward. Wouldn’t want to risk his precious neck getting caught by them dogs.”

“Then how else would you explain it?” Conner grunted.

“Not like you lot were discreet,” Colm huffed, “Aiden and Patrick drunk themselves stupid the other night, caused a good ruckus. Probably ran their god damn mouths knowing them,” the man shot a look behind him at the others. One of them, Arthur did not know which, grunted in response.

“Whatever the case,” Conner continued, “Do we expect issues here? I ain’t dealing with anymore crap.”

“You’ll deal with whatever _crap_ I give you,” Colm sneered, urging his horse into a canter. Arthur winced as Conner did the same, gritting teeth as he tried to keep his balance. They followed the old worn road, drawing closer to the ranch, pulling off into the trees a few yards off. Colm was off his horse first, pulling free a gun before turning towards him with a grin.

“Watch and learn, Arthur. You’re about to see how a real job goes down. You’re with the big boys now.”

“You bringing him into this?” Conner sounded shocked, perhaps as much as Arthur was. He didn’t want any part of this. Robbing with Dutch and Hosea was one thing; they were always careful, and Dutch always had a plan, and they never stole from folks who were just trying to get by. A ranch, this far out away from town, was no doubt such a situation. How much money could they even have to begin with? He swallowed, felt his heart skip a beat, the realization coming just then. 

If they gave him a gun, he had a chance. If they let him come along, he could slip away. This  _could_ be the opportunity he had been waiting for. Only for his hopes to be dashed a moment later as Colm laughed.

“Oh no, he’s just going to be watching for now. Gotta teach him right, wash all those silly notions out that Dutch done put in his head.”

“And you suspect he’s just gonna stay here and wait for us to return?”

“He won’t go nowhere,” Colm seemed positive. Arthur thought differently. Had plans to turn and take heel the moment they went towards the ranch. “And to make sure of that, you’re gonna stay behind and watch him.”

“The hell I ain’t!”   
  


Arthur actually flinched when the man yelled, his voice scathing in his ear. The angry glare that Colm returned seemed lethal in nature, turning his stomach sour even though it wasn’t meant for him.

“Excuse me?”  
  


His voice was even deadlier. Short and crisp, barely a whisper. Almost made him sick. He felt himself tremble, and tried to get a hold of himself. Conner did not seem perturbed by it in the slightest, the anger still evident in his voice.

“I ain’t no god damn nursemaid. I’ve done kept after him long enough. You’re the fool that wanted him, so deal with it, cause I ain’t.”

“You seem to be forgetting who is in charge,” Colm reminded him coldly. “You will do as I say or-”

“Or what?” Conner cut him off. “You gonna shoot me? You ain’t got the guts. And you need me. You might be older but don’t be stupid, you ain’t _nothing_ without me.”

To this, Colm laughed. Gone was the anger, a strange mirth playing in the man’s eyes as he sighed. “You do like to think highly of yourself, don’t you? Consider yourself lucky that I promised mother I’d take care of you, god bless her beautiful soul. If it was my choice, I’d done away with you long ago.”

“Threats don’t work so well when you use them all the time,” Conner called him out. He pressed a hand to his face, sighing. “Let’s just tie him up, we’ve got plenty of rope.”

“I’d be happy to keep an eye on him,” one of them spoke up behind. He risked a glance, watching as the man rode forward. The one who had searched the homestead the night before. What had Colm called him again?

“Thank you, Aiden. I do appreciate your devotion, unlike someone else. Keep him quiet, and if he causes trouble, don’t hesitate to put a bullet in him. Just do your best to not kill him, you hear?”

The warning was clear enough. He wouldn’t have much luck slipping away now. He let out a growl as Conner manhandled him off the horse, his scorn turning into a wince as his feet hit the ground, a jolt of pain soaring through his leg. Felt as though the skin had split open again. The others were dismounting as well, prepping themselves with guns and ammo. Aiden had stepped up, had taken hold of him by the arm, nearly dragging him out of the way. 

Arthur found himself shoved against a tree, wincing as the bark bit into skin through the thin fabric. Surely another set of bruises would be forming there. When and if he ever got out of here he was going to be a mess. Still he locked his knees, standing tall, pulling his arm out of the man’s hold. Aiden raised an eyebrow in amusement, but didn’t say anything in response.

He was a hair taller than Colm, about the same height as Conner, bigger and burlier as well. Had been in a fair amount of scraps if the scars on his face told him anything. Not someone he could really take on and fight, he knew. Not if he wanted to win, that was. Aiden smiled just then as he lit a cigarette, taking a puff and leaning against the tree next to him. A moment later he offered it towards him, laughing at the disgusted look that was shot his way. Then he turned towards the group that was collecting the last of their things, watching as they tethered the horses. 

“Have fun, boys,” he waved them off, “I’ll be sure to take _good_ care of Arthur here. He and I, we’re gonna be good friends, aren’t we?”

The last part was directed at him, but he didn’t bother gracing him with an answer. Didn’t know how to answer. The only thing he did know was that he didn’t want to be a part of whatever he had planned. His time spent on the streets had at least helped to prepare him for the unexpected, knowing that he had to keep alert and pay attention if he wanted to survive. Figured that the same was true here. Arthur forced himself to take a breath, forced himself to stay calm. He _would_ get out of this.

* * *

He was starting to second guess himself. Doubt was not something he was familiar with. Dutch's entire life had been one plan after another, and sure those plans  _did_ change, but plans they still had been. His self-assurance was something he had acquired at a young age and never once had he faltered. While it was true that there were times he was nervous, it was often far overshadowed by his confidence and the assumption that failure was just something that would not happen. And when he did fail, well...he didn’t like to talk about those times. He would do his best to forget about them, to act as though it had never happened in the first place. He couldn’t afford to fail here.

So he kept going, stumbling along a trail that wound tightly through a ravine, attempting to convince himself that he was still following the remnants of the trail he had picked up earlier. The ground betrayed little information, the path packed with overgrowth that fed off the small stream that ran through there. It seemed like someone _had_ come through here, but perhaps that was just him being hopeful. Of him not wanting to doubt.

More time had passed. By now the sun was directly overhead, the day making its way into the afternoon. He was long past exhausted, a mixture of no sleep and of the chaos he had all endured the previous night was starting to wear him thin. The small surge of adrenaline had had gotten from finding Arthur’s jacket was long gone and he was now running off of fumes. But he kept going. Because he knew that giving up now was not an option.

Part of him was angry with himself. He _should_ have gone further last night. _Should_ have kept looking. _Shouldn’t_ have given up so easily. The area in which he had found the fire had only been another hour or so from where he had first wandered. Dutch wondered silently to what he would have found that night if he had only tried a bit harder. He found himself praying, words quietly lost on the wind, that wherever Arthur was, that he was safe. Found himself wondering to who could have picked him up, and his mind kept wandering back to the law.   


Would they think he was just kid lost in the woods? Or would they have recognized him? Arthur had worn his bandanna, as all of them had done. Not to mention they had gotten out of there pretty quickly. Didn't mean too much, he supposed. After all, how many teenage boys would be out running through the woods, loitering in the same area as the bandits they had chased earlier? No, there was a good chance that the law would have figured it out. No doubt that they would be taking him to town, and Dutch getting him out of jail would be tricky. But he figured that they wouldn’t be so keen on hanging a boy, so perhaps he could fudge the truth a bit, apologize and charm the local sheriff into relinquishing Arthur into his hold on the promise he wouldn't cause any more trouble. If he himself wasn’t recognized, that was.

Dutch knew his face was getting to be known. He had had more than one run in with the law, but hadn’t really caused true problems. Didn’t have a bounty. At least, not yet. After that last robbery who knew what had happened back in town? The law had chased them for quite some time, after all. No, if the law had gotten Arthur, Dutch would no doubt have to stage a breakout of some kind. That was, if the law even had him.

Because honestly, he didn’t even know _if_ it was the law that had picked him up.  For all he knew, a random passerby could have stumbled up him. He thought back to the clearing, trying to remember how he had found the recent camp. There hadn't really been any signs of a struggle. Not that he could tell, at least. No blood, no bodies...but then again, Arthur was only fourteen. He could throw a good punch, but if he was outnumbered...

Dutch let the thought trial off, trying to not be overwhelmed. His mind was overworked as it was, all foggy and silly and it was becoming hard to focus. To stay focused. He didn't need these unsavory thoughts clouding his judgment all the more. He paused, crouching, hand brushing aside the ferns that were leaning over the path. That still looked like prints. Fresh prints, he hoped. Hoped that he wasn't just following a pointless lead. He pressed a hand against his forehead, letting out a sigh.

Hosea was going to kill him, no doubt. For certain the man would be wondering where he was by now. He had left in the middle of the night, and the day was passing by quickly. Even if he turned back now it would be dark before he got back again. But he wouldn't turn back, not now, not when he was this close. He felt the lump in his throat and tried to swallow around it. His headache was getting worse.

He didn't even know if he was close. It was just a faint hope he held, a twisted desire that was roiling within him. Arthur might be alive, of that he was sure. But he could be anywhere, miles away by now, and without a horse of his own there was little hope he could catch up. Maybe turning back  _was_ the wisest decision. But if he was anything right now, wise was not amongst them. Desperate, foolish, credulous..all that and more. The hope, the wanton desire so strong that it was impossible to ignore. 

He pressed on.

Kept following the path, making his way around twists and turns. Theoretically the only way was forward; the walls of the ravine here were far too sheer to climb for even the most surefooted mount. They wouldn't have had any choice but to travel straight ahead. It gave him the smallest of comfort. Until the sides started to fade away, and the path widened back into the forest. Damn it all to hell.

He was lost now. He turned in circles, crouching low to the ground, pulling aside foliage and running fingers against the ground, looking for any hint, for any sign of where he needed to go. But the trail was gone, faded as the prints pulled away from softened dirt onto packed ground. They could have gone anywhere at this point. The realization a bitter blow to his already fragile condition. He let out a curse, kicking aside a rock that was in his way, almost relishing in the pain it caused. Maybe this whole thing was a fruitless endeavor. Perhaps he had come all this way for nothing.

He stood, for a long while, in that one spot. Hands on his hips, head hung low, staring at the ground, watching the world pass by in a muted blur. All this time wasted. And how much more time would he spend backtracking? Trying to find their horses, trying to find some damn food so he and Hosea wouldn't starve. And Hosea...

What was the man thinking? What would he think, seeing him come back empty handed a second time? Dutch let out a sigh, hand running through mussed locks of hair, catching on the tangles that were there. What a mess he was. Unkempt, disheveled, completely out of his god damn mind. Taking a damn risk that needn't be taken only to save a few precious minutes. What a fool he was.

The forest came alive around him as a crack sounded through the air. Birds took off in a flutter, wings beating heavy against the air. Rabbits darted out from the undergrowth, racing away to seek shelter as more cracks rang out, disturbing the illusion of peace. Dutch frowned, head turning towards the ruckus. He knew gunfire when he heard it. More shots, echoing in the distance. Too many shots to be a hunter. 

Dutch found himself moving, a renewed energy coursing through him. Maybe it was nothing, a kerfuffle between two ill-tempered men who were happy to shoot first and ask questions later. Maybe it was best for him to avoid it altogether, to turn back while he still could.

And maybe...just maybe this was the sign he had been looking for.

* * *

The smoke drifted into his face, making his eyes water and his throat tickle. He coughed, batting away the offered cigarette as he blinked back tears, hand waving in front of his face to clear the air. Near him, Aiden laughed at the gesture, taking another drag.

“Just tryin' to be hospitable, kid. Wouldn't want you runnin' your mouth off to Colm saying I didn't take care of you or nothing.”

Arthur didn't answer him. Hadn't been answering him. He would have figured by now the man would have clued into the fact that he didn't want to talk. Yet he didn't seem bothered; instead he seemed fit to carry on a one-sided conversation. Aiden chuckled again, leaning on the tree near him, a grin on his face as he tossed the cigarette.

“So, how old are ya?”

Arthur did his best to ignore him, staring at the ranch instead. Colm and the others had sauntered up there a good ten minutes ago or so. Hadn't bothered hiding or sneaking, just walked in like they owned the place. The door had been kicked down and they had disappeared inside. Nothing else had happened yet.

He jumped as his shoulder was grabbed, turning with a snarl to push the other man off him. But Aiden held him firm, drawing a wince from him as fingers dug into the meat of his shoulder. “I'm doing my best here, Arthur, to be cordial, the least you can do is answer.”

Arthur let out a curse, his voice coming out in a whimper as the grip tightened despite his effort to pull away. Finally he relented, words barely a mutter. “Fourteen...I'm fourteen.”

Aiden let a sound of approval, releasing him. “Weren't so hard, now was it?” Then he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, a slight hum sounding. “Fourteen? Big boy like you? Figured you was older than that.”

He reached out a hand, fingers brushing against his face just then. Arthur turned away, stepped to one side to get out of his reach. But the man followed suit, cutting him off. Aiden stood in front of him now, arms outstretched and resting on the tree behind him, face mere inches away now. He could smell his sour breath, the stink of smoke overpowering, assaulting his nose. Arthur swallowed, averting his gaze, trying to slow his heavy breaths.

Slapped the man's hand away again as it came up to caress his face. “Don't touch me.”

Finger gripped his chin in a crushing manner, shoving his head back against the tree. The voice low, word dripping with venom, making his stomach drop. “You don't tell me what to do, boy.”

The fingers stayed there, kept him pinned where he was. Arthur had reached up, grabbed Aidn's hand with his own, a futile attempt to pull him off. His heart was racing now, pounding in his chest, a tremor working its way through his body. He felt sick. And it only intensified as Aiden reached out with his other hand, fingers trailing down his chest, coming to a rest on his hip.

“You look mighty fine in these clothes,” the man whispered. “I had to search quite a while to find anything suitable. You should thank me; otherwise you'd still be bare.”

“Ain't gonna,” Arthur spat out, trying to push him off. While he was glad he had been given something, he hadn't been asked to be stripped in the first place. He heard the man huff, and tensed himself, waiting for the blow to come. But it didn't. A hand, a gentle touch stroking against his cheek. The breath in his ear making him shiver.

“I do like when they're defiant,” came the whisper. Flinched as a warm wetness grazed his ear.

“Get off of me,” he snarled, struggling to get away. What little use it was. Aiden was twice his size, and had him pinned effectively. The laugh was soft and menacing as the man pressed another kiss, lower this time along his jawline.

“Don't you worry. Just relax and let me show you a good time now.”

It sent his skin crawling, blood pounding through his veins, a whimper escaping him as he tried to fight back.

Gunfire sounded just then, making the both of them jump. Aiden had pulled back, glanced over his shoulder at the ruckus, the distraction causing him to loosen his grip. Not all the way, but enough.

Arthur swung his fist blindly. Connected with his jaw. Sent him stumbling.

He didn't wait.

Just turned and ran.

His heart was racing, his lungs burning, gasping for breath as he ran. Trying not give in and just hurl right then and there. His leg was burning, each step sending a jolt clear up to his spine. Hobbling more now, tears forcing their way forward, blurring his vision. Cursing behind him, frantic steps as the man chased him. He tried to force himself faster, fear turning into panic as the sounds grew closer.

Then he fell, a weight pinning him to the ground. Arthur lashed out with feet, fists, teeth, trying to bite, to kick to hit. To do something. Anything. To get free. Aiden was cursing, struggling to grab his hands, to pin him down. But Arthur wasn't making it easy for him.

Managed to slip free once.

Got to his feet.

Was knocked down again.

New sounds. Voices he recognized filling the air around him. The faintest bit of relief. He blinked tears from his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath as he glanced up, seeing Colm watching him from above, a strange smile on his face. The weight was gone from him then, Aiden moving to his feet, cursing as he did so.

“Damn bastard hit me and tried to run,” he spat, even as Arthur picked up himself up slowly. Still shaking, trembling so hard it hurt. Still felt like he might get sick.

“Told you we should have tied him up,” Conner scowled, reaching down and hauling him to his feet. Arthur winced, letting out a soft cry at the treatment, stumbling. The hold tightened, keeping him upright.

“Dutch did say that he was fighter,” Colm laughed, reaching out and clasping him on the shoulder. Arthur grit his teeth, trying to pull away with little success.

“Glad to think you find it funny,” Aiden spat out some blood, rubbing his jaw. “What should we do?”

“Do?” Colm acted as though the question surprised him. But the smile came back, gracing his lips just then. “Well, if Arthur wants to fight, then I think he should fight.”

He wasn't sure what the man meant by that, but considering the hoots and hollers that accompanied the statement, he doubted that it was anything good. Conner was still holding him by the arm, and pulled him along as the group started to move, making their way back towards the homestead. More than once he stumbled, but the man was quick in hauling him back to his feet as they moved on. And once they had reached the outskirts of the ranch, he was dropped to the ground.

Colm had leaned against the fence there, that same sadistic smile on his face. Conner came to a stop near him, leaving Aiden and the other man on the opposite side. Arthur swallowed, pushing himself to his feet slowly, unsure of what game they were trying to play now.

“I'm going first. We have unfinished business,” Aiden growled, closing the gap between them. He felt his heart skip, had taken a step back, watching as the man raised his fists. “Come on then.”

A fight. They wanted him to fight. He growled, fingers clenching into fists. He had fought plenty of times before, but with boys his own age. His size had always given him the advantage, and he could pack a good punch when it was needed. But he was nervous. Aiden was bigger, stronger, had already had him pinned once, and he was angry. Furious. Enraged by the fact that Arthur had gotten in a solid hit already.

The man took a step forward, fist swinging. Arthur ducked it easily, lashed out with his own. Missed. Aiden swung again, Arthur barely evading as he answered with his own blow. Found flesh, but nothing critical. Honestly was probably nothing more than a nuisance to the man. A hand found its way into the back of his shirt just then, pulling him off balance, making him stumble. Then there was a blow to the back of his head, dropping him to the ground.

His vision wavered as he struggled to get back to his feet. New pain erupting in his side as he was kicked, dumping him over. He could hear the laughter, a curse breaking free as he rolled to his front, scrambling on hands and knees to get away.

The assault stopped, giving Arthur enough time to struggle to his feet. He was winded now, his side protesting as he stood, his vision still wavering. Even so he clenched his fists, bringing them up as Aiden closed the gap once more. Swung out when the man got close enough.

His wrist was grabbed, twisted sharply, wrenching a cry from him. One that was silenced as a knee found a way into his gut. Dropped him there, sputtering and gasping, new pain soaring through him. He spat into the dirt below him, raised his head, spat out a curse. Didn't even seen the boot coming.

Not until it hit.

White hot pain coursed through him. Seeped into every crevice, blood cascading down his face, tears welling in his eyes as he cried. And for a moment that was all he knew. Could feel each beat of his heart, pounding within his skull, the pain radiating through his entire being, worse than any headache or hangover he could ever imagine. Found himself unable to breathe, gasping, trying futilely to get air into his lungs.

He got sick. He had nothing to throw up, but still he heaved. Spat out blood and bile, the coppery taste doing nothing for his nausea. He was still bleeding. The pain still fierce and heavy, refusing to let him go. He barely felt the hand on his back, only noticed when fingers gripped his shirt, pulling him up to his knees. Found himself swaying, fighting to keep his balance. Could barely see the man in front of him, could vaguely hear the laughter. Was shoved back down.

He tried. Tried pushing himself to his feet, managed to make it up to his hands and knees. Was kicked again, a boot digging its way into his ribs, stealing what little breath he had left. Another kick, landing on his back. Barely coherent now, his mind clouded over by ghoulish memories. His daddy over him, sneering, saying something. Words laden with disgust, vile and repugnant.

“ _You made me do this.”_

He curled up on himself, soft whimpers escaping, trying and failing not to cry. He knew how to take a beating. Kept his chin tucked against his chest, knees drawn up, arms about his head to stave the worst of the blows off. Had to wait until it was over. Had to wait and hope it wouldn't kill him. Had to try and do better so his daddy wouldn't have to beat him again.

“ _No wonder your ma hated you. You're pathetic.”_

Could no longer feel the individual blows. The pain was one constant thing, encompassing his entire body. Could no longer hear the taunts, the sneers, the laughs. Could only hear the pounding of his heart, echoing in his ears. Drowning everything else out.

Could only wait for it to be over.

For it to all end.

One way or another.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a long chapter to make up for the late post! And a quick shout out to Darling_Jack for helping me through some of the rougher parts of this chapter :)

“ _Come on sugar, is that all you got?”_

It was a voice he knew all too well, having ridden with them far too many times. Distinctive and grating, the words easily heard now that he was out from the thick of the trees. Laughter followed, splitting through the air, directing his attention to the homestead. What the hell were Colm and his men doing here?

Dutch figured they would have split after the law had shown. Assumed they would have tucked tail and ran. Colm was ever the coward, preferring to run rather than fight. But part of him knew that Colm had the tendency to hang around like a bad smell. Dutch had been trying for some time now to cut ties with the man. Yet he always was drawn back, unable to let well enough alone. Felt as though the man was akin to a festering wound that just refused to finish healing.

When the offer had first been made, Dutch had turned him down. He could remember back to that night when Colm had found him in the saloon. They had shared drinks, had been amicable enough despite the tense atmosphere. Had discussed mundane things as though they were old friends who had parted ways under duress and were now attempting to reconcile. But they never had been friends. Not really. Business partners, rather, if one could even call it that.

Colm hadn’t accepted his initial answer, had poked and prodded, goaded and jibed. And when that hadn’t been successful, he had turned to gloating. Dutch had listened with a forced smile, had pretended to not be interested, had even wished the man well. But his mind had been churning even before they had parted ways. Had come up with a plan. Had seen that plan through.

Almost. Because they hadn’t been quick enough. His intention had been to clear out the house and be gone before Colm had even set foot on the land. But they had been late in getting there, and Colm had shown up early. Despite all of that, things seemed to have gone well enough. Until the law showed. Until they were chased like whipped dogs. Until they tried crossing that damn bridge.

In all honesty, with everything that had transpired, he had completely forgotten about Colm. They had left the man in the house when they had taken off into the night. Hadn’t given him a second thought. Dutch knew he should have. Should have known that Colm would not just let bygones be bygones.

Now his heart quickened as he raced across the plains. Could see the figures there, clustered together in a small circle. Could see the form on the ground. Through all this time he hadn’t been sure exactly how he would find Arthur. A thousand scenarios had trickled through his mind, each one worse than the last, a result of his vivid imagination. But even all those dark and troubling thoughts had not prepared him for what he saw.

And he watched as Aiden stood over Arthur’s crumpled form. Watched as fingers worked through the boy’s mussed hair, yanking his head back, shoving it down into the dirt a moment later. More laughter as he was flipped over onto his back, Aiden straddling his chest, leaning down to whisper something in his ear. Arthur feebly trying to push him off.

Dutch pulled his gun free.

It was risky. The close proximity meant he could just as well hit Arthur as he could Aiden. But that was a risk he was willing to take. That he _needed_ to take before things that transpired could not be undone. Decision made, gun raised. He pulled the trigger.

Dutch had always been a good shot.

The laughter that had been there disintegrated, whatever vile words the man had been murmuring lost as his form slumped, nearly obscuring Arthur from his view. He could see the boy moving, trying to pull himself free of the sudden weight. As much as Dutch wanted to help him he couldn’t. Not just yet, because the others were moving. Spurred out of the sudden stupor they had fallen in.

Gone was the jollity, the smugness they had held just moments ago. He saw Patrick reaching for his gun, Dutch firing before the man could even finish drawing. That left just Colm and his brother Conner, the latter of which was moving. A few quick steps, reaching down, a hand wrapping into Arthur’s shirt, pulling him free of the body and into his hold. He dug a gun into the flesh just under Arthur's chin, tilting his head back and pinning the boy against him.

Dutch could see him clearly now. Arthur was a mess. His face was coated in crimson, bleeding profusely from his nose, blood dripping down, staining the white shirt below. The boy’s eyes were blinking rapidly, tears streaking down his face as he seemingly tried to focus. A hesitant gaze meeting his, blurry though it was, a whimper escaping his lips as he was pulled back.

“Let. Him. Go,” his voice was tight, each word punctuated by a furor he had never experienced before. White hot and blinding, a searing rage coursing through him. Deafening him. Encumbering him. Permeating every fragment within his soul.

Colm did not seemed abashed by his fury. He wore an expression of indifference, even managed to crack a smile that was thin and follow it up with a laugh. His own gun was unholstered, trained on Dutch in response to his outburst.

“I would say that it’s good to see you, friend, but we both know that I never was good at bluffing.”

He kept his eyes trained on Colm for the most part, only flicking his gaze to Arthur for one brief second. The boy was still watching him, eyes half lidded, struggling in Conner’s hold albeit weakly.

“I am not here to exchange pleasantries,” Dutch responded coldly.

“Of course not,” Colm agreed, “you came here to make demands. Yet you killed two of my boys, Dutch. Now, how do you intend on paying recompense for that? Life for a life, perhaps?”

Another whimper as the gun dug deeper into flesh, forcing Arthur to rest his head against Conner’s shoulder. Dutch tried not to look, tried to not let the small distressing sounds get under his skin.

“No one else needs to die here today,” he breathed. Killing Colm’s men might not have been the wisest decision he knew, but right now Dutch was finding it difficult to find any sort of remorse for his actions. He could live a thousand lifetimes and still not be able to purge that image from his head. Even now he could still feel the rage burning under his skin. Wanted desperately to follow the foolish notion in his heart to end Colm here and now. The amount of restraint it took to not do so was immersible.

As satisfying as it would be to give into that bloodlust that brewed inside of him, ending Colm’s life would no doubt end Arthur’s as well. And if there was one thing he was determined to accomplish here, it was getting Arthur out of this alive. He let out a breath, allowing the rage to simmer down. His voice calm when he answered next.

“You let him go, and we can go our separate ways, pretend this never happened.”

Colm laughed. Shook his head. That same infernal smile on his face.

“Way I see it, he belongs to me now. Oh Dutch, you really should take better care of your things. The poor boy was nearly drowned and frozen by the time we found him. Saved his life you see. I took him in out the goodness of my heart and cared for him.”

“I can see that you have done a mighty fine job of that,” he ground out sarcastically. Tried to reign his anger back in. Knew that Colm was provoking him. Trying to get him to do something imprudent. Something fatal. “Now if you would be so kind as to let my boy go, I would be mighty grateful.”

“Now why would I go and do something like that?” Colm wondered curiously, a strange mirth playing in his eyes. “Way I see it, he's worth more than that score you took. Honestly I do believe that I've gotten the better deal in the end.”

Of course Colm would have been outraged at his transgression. Dutch had never known the man to take even the slightest of perceived insults lightly, and what he had done was far more egregious. He had toyed with danger, had nearly lost. The money was forgotten, though. He no longer cared about it, no longer cared about anything other than Arthur. And he felt that ire returning, the rage building, and he grit his teeth as he answered.

“You want the money? Let him go, and I will tell you where it is.”

“Ah yes,” Colm chuckled, “cause you always preach the truth. You'll say anything, you will, to get what you want. Make us chase our tails around in circles, make us look like fools,” the man shook his head. “Nah, ain't gonna fall for it, Dutch. Not this time.”

“I swear to you, on my word as a gentleman, that what I am telling you is true. You can have the money; all of it. Just let Arthur go.”

There was stretch of silence, the two men staring one another down, guns still drawn, ready to fire. Each one waiting for the other to make the first move. The smile had faded from Colm's face, the displeasure easy to read in his features.

“What's to stop me from putting a bullet through him now? I think I'd rather like that. It would make a lasting...impact. Don't you think?”

“You do, and god willing the last thing I do is make sure you die a slow and painful death.”

“Hard to do that when you're dead,” Colm spat out.

“You know that out of the two of us, that I am the quicker draw,” Dutch reminded him. “Do you really want to do this here, Colm? Is it worth dying over? Let him go, take the money, and we all go our separate ways. Like gentleman.”

More silence, Colm regarding him with a cold and callous glare. Then a smirk split his features, the yellow of his teeth showing as he grinned. “You were always soft, Dutch.”

He jerked his head towards his brother, the silent command clear. Conner held Arthur, still had him pinned against his chest, the gun held firm. He let out a scowl just then, pulling back and shoving the boy forward. Arthur stumbled, falling to the ground at the sudden release, sprawling in the dirt, a whimpering cry escaping him.

“Go on then, pup,” Colm huffed, “your master is calling.”

Dutch sneered at that comment, but didn't bother with a retort. Didn't take his eyes off of the two brothers in front of him. Kept his voice firm, but gentle as he spoke next. “Come on Arthur, back towards me now.”

He watched as Arthur struggled to his feet, just as the edge of his periphery. Moving sluggishly, but moving. Alive. Stumbling, limping, but standing. Every clumsy movement only heightened the urge to move, to help him. But Dutch didn't dare take his eyes from Colm. Didn't trust the man to not use even the smallest of distractions to his advantage. So he waited, each faltering step heightening his anxiety, until Arthur was close, close enough to reach out and grab. He pulled Arthur towards him, fingers locked about the boy's arm, guiding him back. Pulling him behind. Standing firm between Arthur and the two brothers. Determined to protect him the best he could.

He could feel fingers curl into a fist, gripping the back of his jacket, could feel the boy’s forehead come to rest on the small of his back between his shoulders, could feel the tremor that raced through him. Dutch gave his arm a squeeze, doing his best to reassure him quietly. Still refused to take his eyes off of Colm.

“The money?” the man wondered pointedly.

“Upriver,” Dutch answered, nodding his head in the direction. “A few miles; you'll find it near an old bridge.”

“If you're lying about the money,” Colm warned him, only to be cut off, Dutch letting out an angry roar.

“You _think_ I give a damn about the money?”

The man laughed in response, unshaken by the outburst. More concerning was how Arthur flinched in his hold, his tremor intensify. Dutch gave him what he hoped was another reassuring squeeze. He could tend to him in a moment, once these fools were out of his way.

“Go on, then,” he prompted.

Colm held his gaze, eyes cold and lips drawn tight, but he nodded towards his brother. “Mount up.” Followed with a snarl, a harsher quip when Conner went to protest. The younger of the two grumbled something under his breath, but holstered his weapon, crossing the gap to where the horses were. Dutch kept track of him as best he could, but his main focus was still on Colm, on the standoff they still held.

Eventually the other man relented, lowered his gun, his voice thin as he spoke. “You remember this, Dutch, next time you think about taking one of my scores.”

“Oh I undoubtedly will remember,” Dutch reassured him, lowering his own gun. Didn’t holster it, just held it loosely in his grip. Watched as Colm followed his brother, Dutch turning with each step the man took. Determined to keep Arthur away from his prying eyes. Watched as the pair rode off, disappearing into the tree line. Waited another moment, letting the silence wash over him ensure they had truly gone. Then he turned as he stowed his gun, his hands falling to the boy’s shoulders, holding him out at arm’s length, taking in his appearance.

“Arthur?”

“I’m alright,” the boy breathed, his voice thin and nasally.

Dutch might have believed him. Might have. If he hadn’t been three shades of pale and trembling like a newly born fawn. Not to mention the blood. Dutch swore under his breath, digging through pockets, fingers closing around the bit of fabric there. His kerchief, still damp from the night before, but it was better than nothing.

Arthur winced at the contact. He tried to pull away, but Dutch held him firm. Kept his voice low as he encouraged him. Had Arthur tilt his head back, the rag pressed against his nose, trying to staunch the bleeding. Jesus there was a lot of blood. His heart skipping a beat as the boy whimpered.

“You will be just fine,” he did his best to comfort him. Wasn’t sure how much of a difference it made. Dutch knew it had hurt like hell; knew that underneath all the blood and bruising that his nose had been broken. Damn Colm and his men. Beating on a child. Must have made them feel real strong. The kerchief was saturated now, but he kept it there, the slightest hint of relief seeping through him as he saw the blood start to slow. He discarded the ruined cloth on the ground a moment later, pulling back.

“There,” he breathed, forcing a rough smile. “You’re looking better already.”

Perhaps the boldest lie he had ever told. He was still bleeding, but only just. More blood coated his face, crusty and dry and certain spots. Dutch used his sleeve to wipe away what he could, every wince, every soft whimper cutting deeper into his being. Could feel his heart skip, his chest growing tight as the last of the blood was wiped away, able to see the faint outline of a boot that encompassed the boy’s face. He hadn’t just been beaten. The damn bastards had kicked him. Right in the god damn face.

Dutch swore again, closing his eyes. Took a moment to calm the simmering rage. To quell the shaking in his own hands. To force down the bile that was working its way up, burning his throat. Damn it all to hell, he should have kept going last night. Could have found him sooner. Could have stopped all of this-this madness. This insanity. What the hell had Colm been hoping to accomplish? But in the back of his mind, he knew.

Colm had wanted to hurt him.

Over a damn score.

Had seen his opportunity, and he had taken it.

Hosea had told Dutch more than once that he hadn’t trusted Colm. Truth was, Dutch didn’t really trust him much either. But never did he think Colm was capable of something like this. And worse? What was the man planning on doing had Dutch not shown up here and now? He forced his eyes open, trying to shake free the unnerving thoughts. He couldn’t dwell on what might have happened. Only address what had already taken place.

Arthur still stood where he was, trembling, his gaze cast to one side. Still pale, almost as though he was in shock. Dutch would not blame him. He reached out, grasping the boy’s hand, holding it gently, trying to catch his attention.

“Arthur?”

He wouldn’t look his way. Not even when he called him a second time. Or a third time. His breaths were shallow, mouth agape as he drew in one ragged breath after another, seemingly staring off into the distance. Seemingly. Because Dutch turned then, saw what he was looking at. The two O’driscolls that he had gunned were still strewn upon the ground. Dutch felt his stomach drop, realization hitting him just then. This was the first time Arthur had seen him kill anyone.

Shit.

He moved, stepping in front of Arthur, blocking his vision. Watched as the boy blinked suddenly, as though noticing he was there for the first time. And he took a step back, almost flinched as Dutch knelt in front of him.

“It’s alright,” he coaxed, trying to keep his voice from faltering. Arthur had to understand, had to know. “Arthur, listen, it was either us or them. You get that right? You know that I would never-”

Arthur dropped his gaze, murmured something that sounded like an affirmation. Coughed to clear his throat, his voice hesitant. “What-what are you doing here?”

“I came looking for you,” Dutch frowned at him, baffled by the question. Did Arthur think him being here was pure happenstance? It was almost laughable. Almost. If the boy hadn’t blinked at him owlishly, mouth opening in closing in stunned silence.

“You came-” he stopped and had to swallow, the confusion weighing down his words. “Why? I ain’t nothing, why would you-”

“Arthur,” he stopped the boy from rambling. Anguish gripped at him, seizing his heart and very nearly stealing the breath from his body. Dutch had to pause, had to collect himself. Before he lost it altogether.

Because Arthur had always been confident; unruly and stubborn, absolutely wild at times. And now, all of that seemed to be lost, the boy teetering on the edge of a precipice, seemingly ready to collapse into despondency at the slightest misstep. He had _thought_ that no one was coming. He had _thought_ he wasn’t worth the trouble. He had _doubted_ …

Dutch forced himself to take a breath, forced his words to be calm, attempted to draw Arthur back from that dangerous edge. Needed for him to know.

“I came because I care for you. I’ve been looking for you since you...since everything happened. For a time I thought...I thought that I had lost you. You are like a son to me. I don’t know if I’ve told you that before, but you are. More than a son, in fact. You’re special to me, Arthur.”

It was not his most elegant speech; raw, unpracticed, faltered, but heartfelt-and above all, driven by true emotion. He searched the boy’s face, yearning, hoping to see that his words had reached him. That they had encouraged him. _Reminded_ him. But instead of relief he saw apprehension, dubiety coating his features. As though it couldn't possibly be true.

“A-ain't nobody care 'bout me,” he stuttered.

“Well I _do_ ,” Dutch emphasized. There had been something so small and poignant in the boy’s words. Something that tore at his heart. He didn’t know Arthur's history, and likely never would, but he could see the scars left upon the boy by those long dead and buried.

“Why?” he wondered just then, his voice too small, and too fragile to have come from him. “Ain't you mad at me?”

“Mad?” the question stunned him. What in the world possessed Arthur to presume that he would be upset with him? But searching his eyes could see the doubt there, the apprehension...the worry. Watched as the boy swallowed, as though he was bracing himself for the confirmation. Dutch gave him what he hoped was a gentle smile, spoke with what he hoped was a kind voice. “Why would you think that?”

“I messed up,” he breathed, gaze averting, dropping to the ground, his next words rushed, thin and on the edge of tears, “On the bridge, and when-and the money-”

“I don't care about the money, Arthur,” he counted, reaching out take the boy's hand. Still shaking, trembling in the hold. Dutch curled his fingers tight, trying to quell the tremor that was there. Could see the tears glistening in his eyes.

“We can always get more money, son. The important thing is that you're okay.”

“But Dutch, what about-”

“That's enough,” he shook his head, silencing his protest. He wouldn't let Arthur ramble on, wouldn't allow the boy to chase such wild notions. Not after everything he had been through. He drew in a breath, the words coming easily. To comfort him, to reassure him.

“I am sorry...about everything that you've gone through...about everything they...” the words died in his throat, and he was quick to replace them, “but sometimes these things happen Arthur, and the only thing we can do is move forward.”

That, apparently, had been the wrong thing to say.

Whatever composure Arthur had left disintegrated just then, tears welling up from deep inside and coursing down his cheeks. Shoulders hunched, head hanging low, a horrid guttural sob escaping him. A sound that cut right through Dutch. Left him stunned for a moment, before he found himself moving, wrapping his arms about the boy and pulling him forward. Holding him firm, Arthur's head tucked into the crook of his neck, his shoulders heaving as he sobbed messily. Gasping for breath, sputtering incoherent words.

Dutch found himself lost for words. His silver tongue which was usually laden with speeches had stilled, his mind unable to form any coherent thought. Could feel the tears in his own eyes, wavering and threatening to fall as he felt the boy sob within his hold. Held him even tighter, attempted to pour as much warmth and reassurance into that hold as he possibly could. Wanted nothing more than to banish all the god awful torment he had endured. Wanted nothing more than to hunt Colm down and finish him off for all this pain the man had caused.

“You're okay,” he finally managed to find his voice after several long minutes. It wasn't as steady as he would have liked, but it was there nonetheless. “You're just fine, Arthur. Try and breathe for me, alright?”

The sobs had faded into muted cries by this time, shuddering breaths that were choked out by desperate heaves. Tears, warm as they had been, had soaked into the fold of Dutch's shirt, along with what he assumed was blood and snot. His nose was bleeding again. Dutch let out a sigh, one hand tilting Arthur's head up to get a better look. Eyes red and puffy, swollen and unfocused, the misery all too clear on his battered face.

“Why don't we get you inside,” Dutch told him quietly. “See if we can get you cleaned up a bit. What do you think?”

Mutely the boy nodded. Didn't make a move until he was prompted, whimpering as Dutch helped him up. The homestead wasn't too far from here, a blessing seeing just how slow he was moving. The front door was ajar, swaying in the slight breeze. Dutch pressed a hand flat against the wood, pushing his way in first, Arthur following close behind. He called out to see if the residents were home, not wanting to alarm anyone.

Doubted that they were. Not with all the chaos that had taken place just recently. If they were here they had to be dead to the world to have not heard all the commotion. Or just plain dead. He swore, pushing Arthur behind him quickly. Before he could see the body. The man, or at least Dutch presumed it to be man, was strewn on the ground, half his head caved in. Blood coating the walls. He could smell it now, the scent of death. Foul and heavy, loitering in the air. He swallowed. Tried to keep his composure.

“We uh...we should go in the bedroom here,” he moved slowly, giving the body a wide breadth, doing his best to keep Arthur from seeing. He didn't need that; not now, not after all he had been through. Dutch could feel his breath catch, his heart pound as they crossed the last of the hallway, moving into the bedroom. Or at least, that had been in the intention.

He swore again. God damn Colm. Backpedaled quickly, almost knocking Arthur over. Struggled to find his composure, his words nowhere near as solid as he needed them to be.

“Come this way, son. Try not to look down, alright? Keep your eyes up for me.”

The kitchen it was then. Dutch letting out a breath as they passed through the door, the faint aroma of a forgotten simmering stew encompassing them. Warm and enticing, so much better than the horrors in the other room. He turned, easing Arthur down into one of the chairs there. Let a hand rest on the boy's shoulder.

“You stay here; I'm going to see what I can find, alright?”

He waited until Arthur nodded, noting the pale complexion on his face. He had seen the body. No way he couldn't have. Dutch forced a smile, gave him a warm reassurance, then stepped back out into the hallway. Moved around the body. Pressed his way back into the room.

If he had thought the hallway was bad, then this was ten times worse. Three bodies. A woman, the wife perhaps? A mother? Seeing as the the other two were definitely not grown. One he figured had been about Arthur's age. The other...fucking hell Colm.

He swallowed back the bile. Tried to not let it get to him. Tried to remind himself _why_ he was here.

Arthur.

Arthur was his main concern. And he needed looking after.

So Dutch forced himself to keep moving. Stepping careful over the prone forms. Whispering quiet condolences, wishing there was more he could do. Reached the dresser, tore through the drawers as fast as he dared, taking anything and everything he could use.

The armoire next. The nightstands. Bundling everything he collected in a bed sheet, hoisting it over his shoulder. Left the room as quick as he could, unable to be in there any longer, the stench of death too overbearing. The thought in the back of his mind.

It could have been Arthur.

But it wasn't. It had been someone else. Someone he didn't know, someone unimportant. He felt guilty, thinking those thoughts. He couldn't help it and it left a sour taste in his mouth, a heaviness in his stomach. These folks did not deserve any of the misfortune thrust upon them by Colm. Yet there was nothing he could do. Sometimes these things happened. He had to keep moving.

The dark and dreary thoughts that loomed in his mind were washed away as he stepped back into the kitchen, a whole new concern filling him. Arthur was hunched over again, arms encircling his torso, broken sobs spilling into the air. The blanket was dropped, Dutch racing over to where he sat, falling on his knees in front of him.

“Arthur, what's wrong?”

The boy shook his head, barely looking at him, his words a blubbering mess. “I l-lost my...lost H-hosea's hat.”

Had he not been so damn scared out of his mind he would have laughed. Dutch let out his breath in a rush, letting out a muted curse. “Oh Arthur, is that all?”

“I-I had it, Dutch. I h-had it..and then I l-lost it somewhere,” he forced the words out between stuttering sobs.

“Arthur, calm down,” he reached up, grasping the boy by his arms, “It's alright. We can get another one.”

But he was shaking his head in response, more tears cascading down his face, damn near in a panic. “No...w-we have to go f-find it.”

“I don't care about a hat,” he tried to calm the kid down. Tried to reason with him. But he was beyond reason, a godawful keening filling the air Arthur protested.

“I n-need it, I g-gots to f-find it.”

He was actually struggling to his feet, trying to leave despite Dutch pushing him back down, holding him there. His anger getting the best of him.

“Arthur, sit down! The last thing you will be doing is running through the countryside looking for a damn hat.”

If he thought it would help the situation, he was sorely mistaking. If anything it only caused him to start sobbing harder. Sputtering and coughing, words coming out in a desperate whine, almost incoherent.

“I had him,” he choked, “I h-had him a-and then h-he was gone, a-and I tried, Dutch, I-I promise I tried. I-I got to f-find his hat, please...”

He didn't fail to notice the change in his words there. Dutch was still kneeling, still holding Arthur down, trying to keep him from just careening out of the room and out to god knows where. Dutch was frozen, confused, trying to understand what had just taken place. Then realization slamming into him, robbing him of his breath, remorse flooding his veins.

He should have told him.

It had slipped his mind. He had been so relieved to have found him, that he hadn't even for a moment considered what Arthur might have been thinking. He cursed himself inwardly, willing his heart to beat, for his lungs to breathe.

“He's okay, Arthur, he's okay,” Dutch reached up, cupping his face in his hands. “Hosea's okay.”

He was a mess again, covered in even more blood and snot than he had been before. Normally it was something that would rattle him; Dutch never did had the stomach for such things. But he did his best to push it aside, talking over the cries, trying to get Arthur to understand. There were a few more half-hardhearted cries, coughs that shook his frame as the boy managed to meet his eyes, words laden with hesitancy.

“He ain't d-dead?”

“No,” Dutch reassured him, regret still eating away at his insides. “He's doing just fine. He sure is worried about you though.”

Arthur watched him through blurry eyes, tears still leaving tracks down splotched cheeks. Seemed as though he was considering whether or not Dutch was telling the truth. Then he drew in a shaky breath, voice raw from the recent episode.

“But he a-ain't here.”

“I got him nice and warm up in a cabin, don't you worry,” he was quick to reassure Arthur, hands fallen to the boy's shoulders. “The same cabin we headed towards in fact.”

“And h-he's okay?”

He seemed to be getting a hold of himself now. Dutch gave him an encouraging smile. “He hut his leg, is all. As soon as he gets some rest, he will be right as rain. And just think how happy he will be to see you. He sure does miss you; you'd like to go see him, right?”

He was trying to be encouraging. Trying to distract him, to help him regain his composure. It seemed to be working, because the sobs had fallen into soft cries, the tears little more than stains on his face. Arthur swallowed thickly, managed to bite back a partial whimper as he nodded.

“Alright,” Dutch did his best to tamp his emotions down. Exhaustion was starting to settle into his bones, the commotion of the day's events wearing heavily on him, but even so he could not allow himself to falter. No good would come from his unraveling. So he forced a smile, did his best to keep his spirits up, his voice light and hearty.

“Let us work on getting you cleaned up then, and afterwards, we can go and see Hosea.”


	9. Chapter 9

It took too long. With each passing moment, Dutch was further consumed in the fear that Colm would return to finish the job. Every noise, whether it be a breadth of wind, or the creaking of the house around them had him jumping, had him fighting the instinct to reach for his sidearm. He wanted to leave; wanted to take Arthur and get him as far away from this hell hole as possible, back to safety. But the boy needed looking after, and with each wound Dutch patched, he found two more. A turned wrist, battered ribs, scrapes, bruises, and that nasty-looking gash running the length of his leg.

At least Colm had done _one_ thing right. The wound still oozed, and the bandages were long since soaked through, but at least it was clean and free of infection.

Had he been himself, Arthur would have fought him tooth and nail to pull away from Dutch’s overwhelming concern; he would have argued against even the most rudimentary attention and no doubt would have spouted off choice words for every perceived transgression. Arthur had always shied away from touch, had always been distant, but right now, he simply sat there, worryingly pliant as he was worked over. A morose sight indeed. He said nothing, simply stared off into the corner of the room in a haze as Dutch tied off what he hoped were the last of the bandages.

He looked exhausted.

A feeling Dutch knew all too well. His own head felt as though it was in a vice, his limbs heavy and barely functional, fingers numb and simply responding to tasks without any real thought. Throat raw like grit, words pouring out of his mouth as though he might suffocate on them, despite the fact he said nothing. Yet Dutch kept going. Kept speaking, if only to fill the unnatural silence of the house. Kept going because he knew he could not afford to stop.

He had to get him fixed up.

Had to get him out here.

Had to get him back to Hosea.

He moved, silent now, his words all spent, sorting through the clothes he had gathered until he found something that would work. Once more Arthur didn't resist; he barely could work through the motions as Dutch more or less dressed him. The homestead was quiet now, save for the bellows of cattle just beyond the door, the deep sounds a bit too close for his liking.

An hour had passed.

He took a small half-step back, taking another look at Arthur.

The boy was looking better now. Still worn, still bruised, still despondent. But clean. The clothes fit him well enough. It took everything in Dutch's power to not dwell on the fate of the previous owner of said clothes, slowly decaying in the other room.

The apprehension he had held earlier had waned, and even Arthur seemed to have relaxed, if only barely. As much as Dutch wanted to leave, wanted to run and to never so much as think of this awful place again, something in his gut told him Colm wouldn’t be back. He gambled on the fact he knew the man well enough. Colm, once he had the money, would no doubt hoot and holler and set about spending it, leaving any thoughts of vengeance for another day.

Probably.

Mind made up, Dutch set to digging through the cabinets. If they were going anywhere, he reasoned, then they needed to keep their strength up.

And it would be a shame for the stew to go to waste.

Dutch fixed a bowl for Arthur first, not bothering with his until he had started to eat. It took some prompting, some subtle bargaining and the promise of leaving to see Hosea to snap Arthur out of his stupor long enough to eat.

It took more of an effort to convince himself to even look at his own portion. His stomach was still tight with worry, but that worry somewhat eased as Arthur regained a bit of the color in his face. Somewhat. Beneath that freshly soothed worry, a brand new anxiety bubbled and grew.

It had taken him hours to get here.

A largely downhill hike, on his own, pushing to the very edges of his limits, and it had still taken him hours. One look at Arthur told him that the journey back would be exponentially worse. Dutch would be surprised if Arthur made it more than a half a mile. They boy looked fit to collapse as it was. If circumstances had been better, Dutch would have opted to just leave Arthur behind, to make the trek back up alone and somehow get Hosea down here instead.

But he wouldn’t leave Arthur. Not in this forsaken place where an entire family lay brutally murdered just beyond the kitchen door. Not alone where Colm could find him, if the vile impulse arose. No...it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.

Still he did his best to make light of the challenge that lay before them. Attempted to pass it off as though it was no big deal. Reassured Arthur more than once that they would be just fine, that the walk wasn’t really that bad. They could take it slow, they could stop when needed, and everything would be fine. He talked at length of the views; lied about seeing golden stags and bright red foxes all along the trail. He said all of this in a poorly rehearsed speech as he finished the last of his stew, ignoring the way it sat heavily in his gut.

Arthur didn’t so much as offer a word in response; neither admonished him for his poorly fabricated lies, nor fell for them as Dutch had expected. The boy had barely looked at him during the entire spiel. Instead he had stared at his bowl, pushing around chunks of meat with the back of spoon as though he was attempting to entertain himself. Dutch had let out a sigh, had once again promised him that walk wasn’t really that far, and that they would be just fine. If they weren’t, he said forcing a smile across his face, he’d carry Arthur on his back.

Arthur had looked at him then, the weariness more than evident on his face as he spoke for first time since his emotional collapse.

“Why don’t we just take the horses?”

He had asked so matter-of-factually that Dutch was left dumbfounded, a frown plastered on his face in confusion. Arthur might have been struggling with things, but he could swear he saw the youth roll his eyes, setting the spoon down as he set his elbows on the table to lean forward.   
  


“There were four,” he explained quietly, “…two of ‘em— only two of them left.”

For a moment, all he could do was stare at the boy. Of course. He spat out a curse under his breath. Colm and Conner had left the area on horseback, but Aiden and Patrick’s steeds were surely nearby. Abandoned. Ripe for the taking. He should have known— Arthur confirmed as much, claiming the last he had seen them was in the woods just south of where they were now.

He set his empty bowl down, urging Arthur to stay put as he went to see for himself.

That had taken even more time.

Mostly because he had to convince Arthur that he _was_ coming back before he could even set foot out the door. The boy was aloof more often than not, but it seemed right now that he was intent on staying as close to him as possible, and the panic in his eyes when Dutch told him he was going to look made his heart sink. But it would be quicker for him to go alone and fetch the steeds, and after numerous reassurances that he was _indeed_ going to return, Arthur finally relented, releasing Dutch’s sleeve from his iron grip.

He paused as he left the kitchen, once again greeted by the mess that was left there. Dutch acted quickly, had made the effort to move the body from the hallway and into the bedroom with the others. The hallway was still decorated in blood, but at least that gruesome sight was hidden. It was enough to give him nightmares, let alone Arthur, and he had already been through so much. Had they any more time, he might have seen to a proper burial, but this was all he could offer the poor soul at the moment.

He started into the woods, gun drawn as he scanned the trees for the slightest sign of danger, but found none. It was reassuring, if only just. Even more so when he found the horses grazing unconcernedly just within the tree line. They regarded him warily, but they were easy enough to collect and lead back, spurred on by the same gentle tone he’d used on Arthur. He faltered only once, as he came across a swath of discarded material, left forgotten underneath a cluster of ferns. He stared at it for a moment before he reached down and collected it, placing it over one of the saddles before moving on.

He found Arthur plastered against the window when he returned; watching. The tension melted from his lithe frame as soon as he saw Dutch emerge with both horses in tow.

Relief was replaced by exhilaration as Dutch spied his vigilant gaze and proudly held up the hat as he walked through the door. Arthur had wasted no time in clutching onto that precious thing, haphazardly placing it back on his head. Hosea’s hat might have been a hair too big for him, but it didn’t seem to deter him in the slightest. If anything, he reveled in the floppiness, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. Dutch had encouraged him to eat the rest of his stew while he packed provisions, filling the saddlebags with as much as they could carry. He knew full well just how empty the cupboards were in the other cabin.

Two hours had passed.

It took far longer than he wanted, but the time given to them had been a blessing. Arthur seemed to be more himself. The stew had revitalized the pair of them, and their spirits were in far better condition than they had been earlier. Dutch hefted him into the saddle of his steed after ensuring the boy could manage a ride on his own. And as soon as he had been certain, they had set off, and he had taken the lead. Had gone away from the river, following a winding path that led up the backside of the mountain, determined to avoid the river at all costs.

He had traveled this area before, earlier this year in the midst of summer. The trees had been laden with leaves then, and flowers had pushed their way up towards the sun, the breeze cool underneath the demanding sun. Now the greens had blossomed into brilliant shades of orange, the flowers waning as autumn started to make itself known. The further they went up, the colder the air became. Thin and wispy, the ground turning muddy beneath them. Already the sky was starting to darken, the greyish blue of twilight attempting to take hold.

The next couple of hours passed in relative silence, but it was nothing like the grim hush they’d left behind.

Dutch kept the horses at an easy pace, despite the ever-looming threat of time. It would be well past nightfall by the time they made it back and, if he knew Hosea, the man would take him aside and give him the verbal lashing of a lifetime for being gone so long. Might even cuff him upside the head for it.

But Dutch didn’t dare to push any harder.

The horses would handle it just fine, he knew, but Arthur? He had glanced over once, had seen the grimace on the boy’s face. It had forced him to slow and question him, but Arthur had been quick in waving off his concerns. That old facade he had held since they first met had returned, replacing the haunted child he comforted just hours earlier. Arthur was doing his best to keep up appearances, the stubborn child. Dutch knew that the ride was doing him no favors, aggravating new and old wounds alike, but they didn’t have much choice in the matter. They needed to get back, so they kept going, and Dutch didn’t ask again.

Three hours became four, four became five, and soon they were teetering on the edge of six hours as the outline of the cabin came into view. Six hours since Dutch had found him, pinned and beaten on the ground. Six long hours of consoling him, of patching him up, of trying to get him this far. But here they were. Worse for the wear, no doubt, but they were alive. That was more than he could have hoped for.

Most of last night's snow had melted. A thin layer of sludge was all that remained, and it was slowly freezing once more as the chill of the night took hold. Stars shone brilliantly above their heads and their breath trailed through the air as they finally pulled up in front of the cabin. Dutch was the first one to dismount, forgoing collecting the supplies as he turned to help Arthur follow suit. He didn’t breathe a word of complaint, but the pain was easy to read on his features.

The bruising had grown more evident in these few hours. Deep dark patterns spread out from his nose and under his eyes, slowly creeping down to his cheekbones. His mouth still hung slightly ajar, a sure indicator that he couldn’t quite breathe properly. Wouldn’t be able to; not for quite some time.

“Go on inside, get yourself warm,” Dutch pressed him forward gently with a hand between his shoulder blades. Arthur hesitated, uncertainty flashing across his face, but with the prod he nodded mutely, stumbling towards the door. Dutch himself was awash in his own emotions, still unable to comprehend everything that had taken place in the past day. How they had gone from being well and hearty, to almost losing everything, to being back here, perhaps damaged but not quite broken. It would take time to recover, he knew, but damaged was better than dead.

Dutch drew in a deep breath. Gathered the supplies, stupidly decided to take them all in one trip. He managed, of only just, and dumped most of it second he crossed into the cabin.

The fire was still going strong, keeping the interior bathed in a hearty warmth. Hosea must have been able to move a little, seeing that he had kept the fire fed. A promising sign for sure. As it was now, the man was back in the chair, covered loosely in the blanket, head bowed and resting against his chest as he slept. The sorrow that had weighed on his features when Dutch had seen him last was still there, still twisted onto his face, even in sleep.

Arthur had stopped a few paces in front of him, watching him quietly. Hosea was normally a light sleeper. On any other day, if he were any less exhausted, their arrival would have had him up well before they even walked in the door. But the man slept on, no doubt still worn from everything that had transpired. Dutch was about to beckon Arthur over, to encourage him to let Hosea be, but Arthur had moved already, had reached a shaky hand out to rest on top of the older man’s hand, and Dutch simply didn’t have the heart to stop him.

Hosea stirred, had pushed himself up partially, only to freeze just then. His voice was rough, the word forced out into a harsh whisper.

“Arthur?!”

And he had lunged, quicker than Dutch had ever seen the man move. Both arms grasping the boy by the shoulders, hauling him into a crushing embrace. Arthur had flinched at the sudden move, tense and rigid within his hold, but not for long. Dutch could see the moment he relaxed, all but melting into the older man’s hold, his frame shaking as he began to cry once more.

“I’m sorry.”

The whisper was muted, almost missed due to the fact Arthur had buried his head into the man’s chest, but the feebleness of his words just made things that much worse. Perhaps it was the fatigue, or perhaps it was the fact he himself was nearly overwrought with emotions once more that left him rendered speechless. He struggled, unable to muster another speech to reassure the boy that none of this had been his fault. Whatever the cause was, where his words had faltered, Hosea had taken over.

“Don’t you dare,” the man’s voice came out in a hiss, mumbled into Arthur’s hair, “Don’t you goddamn _dare_ apologize, you hear me?”

His hold on Arthur had not relinquished, wrapped firmly about the boy’s frame as though he might slip away at the slightest release. Arthur, by this time, had dissolved fully into tears once more, and Hosea himself was not doing so well either. The man’s head was resting on top of Arthur’s, whispering quiet words that were broken by snivels of his own. Dutch found himself swallowing, forcing himself to step out the room to give them that moment of privacy.

That and the fact that at least one of them ought to remain composed. They certainly didn’t need all three of them to be blubbering fools at the same time. He focused his attention on unpacking the supplies, setting things on the counter for easy access. Allowed himself more time than was strictly necessary, carefully organizing and inspecting each item. Keeping himself busy. And then, only when he was certain the lump was gone from his throat and his eyes had stopped stinging, did he allow himself to go back into the room.

The tears had stopped. Or at least the sobbing had. Hosea met his gaze briefly, the evidence of his sentiment apparent in his eyes. There was a smile there, though bittersweet, his arms still cocooning Arthur, holding him against his chest.

“I didn’t think...” he started, the words rough and faltering, “I figured...”

“I know,” Dutch agreed to the unfinished statement. How he ever knew. They had been more than lucky. He came to a stop near the man, unable to stop the smile at the sight. Arthur had fully relaxed into Hosea’s hold, sleeping soundly against his chest. Truly it shouldn’t be a surprise. The boy had to be exhausted.

“Give me a moment to fix up the couch, and I’ll move him over,” he told him quietly.

“He’s fine,” Hosea shook his head, brushing him off.

That was debatable. Arthur was almost too big to be like that, near the same height as Hosea, legs dangling loosely to the floor. There was little evidence to presume that any of it was comfortable for either of them, but when Dutch took the initiative to mention that fact, Hosea had nearly growled as he repeated himself.

“He’s _fine.”_

Dutch didn’t fail to notice how Hosea had tightened his hold on the boy either. There would be getting him to let go now, he knew. So he relented, retreated to the couch himself, sitting down with a weary sigh. There were the beginning of creeping tendrils of pressure working their way through his head, the sure sign of a horrid headache just on the verge of blossoming in his head.

He needed to sleep.

Dutch could feel the heaviness settling in his chest, his entire body weary as he lay back on the couch. He slung an arm over his eyes, blocking out the light of the fire, allowed himself to drift off. Would have drifted off if Hosea hadn’t spoken.

“What happened?”

Hosea didn’t elaborate, but Dutch knew what the man was asking after. The man knew that those kind of wounds didn’t happen from the river alone. That there was something else that had transpired. And Dutch knew that he couldn’t lie about it. Refused to lie about it. He respected Hosea far too much for that, and the man deserved to know.

“… Colm happened.”

“ _What?”_

His voice had been thin, more of shock than anger. But anger all the same punctuated the word. It didn’t surprise him. Dutch let out a sigh, pushing himself up to a sitting position, hand pressed against his forehead.

“Seems Arthur managed to get himself out alright, but Colm was… he must have been following us. He and his men picked him up. Roughed him up a bit.”

“A bit?” Hosea spat out, careful to keep his voice low so Arthur wouldn’t stir, “Dutch, his fucking nose is broken.”

“I know,” he snapped in return, “I found them out in the valley; they had him pinned down, Hosea. You think I wanted to see any of that?”

“God damn you,” he cursed. It was a rarity for the man to do so, at least not at this frequency. Hosea was furious with him. And while Dutch had to admit that perhaps some of this had been his fault, he couldn’t help feel the man was being unfair with him, and so took the liberty of defending himself.

“You think that I wanted this to happen? _Any_ of this?”

“Where in the hell did you hear about the robbery in the first place?” the man pressed. “You want me to believe that it was coincidence that Colm just happened to show up on the same job as us? That Colm was so damn determined to follow us on happenstance? I’ve told you before that he isn’t someone to mess with, Dutch. You swore to me that you weren’t running with him anymore.”

“I wasn’t-” Dutch let out a breath, his words faltering. It took a moment to gather himself before he answered. “Look, Hosea, I know things haven’t quite gone according to plan but-”

“Pray tell me, Dutch, what part of your _plan_ went to plan?”

He couldn’t answer. Because the answer was obvious. Nothing had gone to plan. The money was lost, Hosea had been hurt, Arthur had nearly been killed...that headache was becoming something fierce now.

“And what happens when we run into Colm and the others again? You know it’s bound to happen. You think that they’re just going to leave us be? Do you think for one moment that they won’t take the opportunity to harm Arthur again? Or maybe they’ll just put a bullet in his head next time, save themselves the trouble.”

“I think...”

Hosea’s words were settling in deep. Truly Dutch hadn’t thought that far ahead, hadn’t had a chance, far too busy with just trying to keep one foot in front of the other. But Hosea was right. Where, exactly, did this end? Colm had gotten the money, but Dutch had killed two of his men. Colm hadn’t seemed too perturbed by that at the moment, but no doubt revenge would be brewing on the man’s mind. And given the proximity, they would cross paths sooner rather than later. Dutch felt his resolve give, the only apparent answer before him coming forth.

“I think we need to get out here. Out of the state. We can head back west. I know of an area in Montana, beautiful place. We can spend the winter there, get our bearings, and cross the Cascades when the spring comes. Arthur will like it there, I think.”

“Right,” Hosea’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “And how are we going to get there? We have no money Dutch, no supplies. We lost the damn horses—”

“One thing at a time,” he scolded him. “We’ll figure it out. I pulled enough from a ranch in that valley to keep us going for a couple of days. Let’s just...I need to sleep Hosea. We all do. Things will seem better in the morning, just... trust me, alright?”

There wasn’t a response. He knew the man had heard him, and it left him uneasy. Dutch swallowed, calling out to him again, wanting and needing to hear the man agree, to absolve some of this guilt he carried. Hosea responded after his third attempt, his voice still tight, angry but perhaps not as angry as before. Sounded more like disappointment.

“Get some rest, Dutch.”

It was better than nothing, he knew. His head was pounding and he was far too tired to try and argue anymore. Hosea would calm down, he knew, given enough time. Dutch would allow him that time, would allow himself that time. He lay himself back down, eyes closed as he drifted off, sleep pulling at him quickly as he quietly reassured himself.

They would all be fine come morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man did I ever struggle with this chapter. Major thanks for Darling_Jack for getting me through this one. You are a saint!!!!!


	10. Chapter 10

The quiet that surrounded him now was a far different quiet than the one he had endured earlier. Hosea had woken sometime that morning, brilliant rays of sun peeking through worn curtains, and the fire sputtering and on the verge of dying. It hadn’t taken him to notice he was alone. Dutch was nowhere to be seen. Not that it had worried him. They hadn’t spoken, not really, too overcome by all that had taken place, but he could remember well enough the man’s suggestion of taking off to find the horses. A reasonable idea, seeing as they couldn’t stay here.

But it still hurt.

Part of him didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to move on and pretend as though none of this had happened. They owed it to Arthur to try and find him, to try and give him a proper farewell. His hat had been a start, but it felt more like an empty promise, heavy within in his hands. The boy hadn’t been with them long, but to Hosea it had felt like a lifetime.

He hadn’t realized how much he cared.

Not until now. That day he spent on his own stretched on forever, too consumed by his thoughts to move at first. But as the last of the fire dwindled away, he had forced himself to move. His ankle still throbbed and wavered as he put his weight on it, but he had managed to hobble around. Hosea had taken his knife, and used it to pry up loose floorboards to use as more fodder for the fire. Not the best source, no, but it wasn’t like he could just go outside and chop firewood. Not only did he not have the tools, but there was no way his ankle would support him in that endeavor.

So he had busted the thin boards down, had fed them to the fire, stoking it up once more. Had wandered the house, combing through threadbare cupboards, finding nothing of value or interest. He had even gone outside once, letting the sun wash over him, letting it warm his bones despite the awful chill he felt inside. He did all of this to try and keep himself distracted. To try and keep himself from drowning in his own remorse.

Time had ticked away slowly, the sun creeping through the sky. Noon had faded into evening, the daylight drowning into dusk and then enveloped into nightfall. Still had been no sign of Dutch. Despite all that had happened, and all of the mixed feelings residing within him, Hosea found himself missing the man. Wanted him here, to help fill this overwhelming silence with pointless words and empty promises. He just didn’t want to be alone; not anymore. But he didn’t have a choice in that matter, he could only wait, and so Hosea had sat himself back in the chair, had watched the flames flicker and dance, his own breaths heavy in the air. Had eventually fallen asleep.

Only to see Arthur when he next woke.

Suspected he had been dreaming just then. It had taken a moment for him to fully register that what he was seeing was indeed real. His face had been a mess of bruises, swollen and crusted with dry blood, and exhaustion had ingrained itself in every feature of his being. But it was him nonetheless, and Hosea had grabbed him before the illusion could disappear. Had held him tight, had refused to let go even at Dutch’s suggestion. Too overwhelmed by emotions, too grateful to even find the words to express his relief. He had managed to get a few words out, choked between gentle sobs. Had held the boy close in attempt to make up for all those words that had been lost. Until eventually he had fallen asleep in his hold. Something Arthur had never done. Something, that if he were doing better, probably wouldn’t have happened.

Then that relief had then morphed, had soured, and it had fed into his anger. Hosea had wasted no time in chewing Dutch out once the truth had been shared. He had given him the soundest verbal lashing he could muster at that moment, restraining himself only due to the fact he hadn’t wanted to wake Arthur. It hadn’t lasted long. The anger was still there, but Dutch was just as exhausted, and Hosea had pointedly encouraged the man to sleep. They would argue later, he knew. Dutch would continue to foist the blame off his shoulders, to pretend that all of this was just an unfortunate incident despite the contrary. Damn him for being so reckless.

But maybe he was being too harsh. Dutch, while the man hadn’t thought things through, would not have wanted any of this to transpire. And Hosea blamed himself as well. He should have been on top of Dutch, should have questioned him about the nature of the job, should have known better. He had known Dutch long enough to know the younger man was more often than not a fool. And it was one thing to risk themselves, but to drag Arthur into all of this?

They would have to do better. No longer could they be so reckless. Arthur might be brave, and god willing would do _anything_ they asked simply for approval, but they themselves needed to do right by him. As far as he was concerned, Arthur was their responsibility, and more than anything, he should come first.

Those thoughts settled him, the determination easing his earlier regrets. They could do better, and would do better. Heading west was a good idea. Montana was a beautiful place, and further west would hold even more opportunity. Would give them the respite they needed. The time required to heal.

Hours had passed now, and the silence had once again settled over the cabin. But it was comforting this time, rather than empty like before. Arthur still slept, hadn’t moved except for the faint shifting in attempt to get comfortable, his weight pressing down into him and no doubt leaving a few bruises. Hosea wouldn’t complain. Couldn’t bring himself to sleep either, too afraid of drifting off and waking to realize this had been nothing more than a cruel delusion.

So he simply sat there, arms wrapped about the youth’s frame, watching the fire dance in the night. Could feel his stuttered breaths, the slight gasps as Arthur did his best to breathe haphazardly through his mouth. What a mess all this had been. Hosea let out a sigh, the slightest twinge of regret working its way back into his mind. Arthur deserved none of this…

He looked down, arms tightening as he felt the boy flinch, his entire body jolting. Arthur had half-raised his head, had tried to push him out of the hold, but Hosea was quick in reassuring him, easing him back down.

“You’re alright now,” he whispered, willing him to relax. He rubbed the small of his back, trying to ease the tension that was there. It was soon replaced by a tremor, the boy shaking in his hold. The sight alone made his heart stutter, could feel his throat tighten. He knew the telltale signs of a nightmare, and without doubt Arthur had been through enough to feed these demons for months to come.

“You want to talk about it?”

Talking helped, he knew. But he wasn’t surprised to feel Arthur shake his head. He had always been quiet about his fears. There had a been a few mornings they had waken to find him up, face tight and reeking of fatigue, a sure indicator he hadn’t slept. They had asked him about nightmares before, and he had shrugged them off, saying it was no big deal. Whatever caused them, Hosea knew, was nothing pleasant. Dark and dismal fears conjured from bitter memories of his past.

And now, he had a whole new assortment of terrors to choose from.

Hosea let out a sigh. If Arthur wasn’t willing to talk about it, then he was going to talk about something else. Something to distract him, to pull him away from whatever monstrosity that was festering in his mind. He wouldn’t allow it stay; not if he could help it. So he forced a smile, mustered as much charm as he could within his voice.

“Dutch and I reckon we’re gonna head to Montana. Stay there for the winter. You ever been out that way?”

There was a subtle shake of his head.

“It can get cold there, but there’s a lot of flat land in the east. Stretches on for miles, disappears into the horizon, up to the mountains in the west. Quite a beautiful sight, actually. I was out that way, years ago, before I met Dutch. Did a bit traveling in my younger days. I was planning on being a comedian, working on the stage, did I ever tell you that?”

Another shake of his head.

“I liked to charm people, make them laugh, feel good about themselves. Figured if could make even one person feel better about themselves then that was enough. I would spend my time traveling around, seeing the country, and if I did well enough then I could live a fine life.”

“What happened?”

His voice was rough, nasally. It almost hurt to listen to him. Hosea did his best to not comment on it, his thoughts drifting as he tried to recall when everything had changed.

“I’d done a few shows, and I guess you could say that folk didn’t find me as entertaining as I thought I was. Now they didn’t go about trying to boot me off like I’ve seen them do to others, but business wasn’t all that great and I found myself on some hard times. I was in my teens, I reckon, a bit older than you, and I was...dipping into supplies, so to speak, to keep myself fed. Got ahead of myself though, when I tried to steal a chicken. Some hill country sheriff caught me in the act, and sentenced me to hang.”

“For stealing a chicken?”

“For stealing a chicken,” Hosea laughed. “Damn thing got away too, dropped it when I tried to run. When I was caught, I tried to talk my way out of it, but the idiot would listen. Lucky for me, lots of folks there were also on hard times, probably petty thieves themselves, and they didn’t agree with the sheriff and his mindset. Some fool shot the rope while I was strung up, and then they all turned on him, strung him up instead. I consider myself lucky that I got away with nothing more than a sore neck.”

In his hold, Arthur shivered. “I’m glad ain’t nobody try and hang me for stealing food.”

“You ever get caught?”

“A few times,” Arthur murmured, drawing in a guttural breath. “Didn’t have any money to pay them, so they’d take me to jail, keep me there for a few days before they let me out again.”

It was hard for him to wrap his mind around the fact that Arthur had been on his own for several years now. And the fact he had been dragged to jail for simply trying to keep himself fed planted a bitter seed deep within his gut, leaving a foul taste in his mouth. How anyone could think that was a reasonable way to treat a starving child was beyond him. Still he couldn’t help but wonder.

“They ever take you to an orphanage?” Surely that was a more reasonable response than jail. He felt Arthur shrug in his hold.

“They tried once, but I didn’t stay. Ain’t no one who wanted a dumb bastard like me.”  
  


“You aren’t dumb, Arthur,” Hosea chided him lightly.

The boy had a habit of selling himself short, feigning ignorance and grappling with self doubt whenever he was challenged by something. No doubt a leftover from his previous life before they had found him. Despite all of his doubts, Hosea had seen just how fast Arthur had been able to learn everything. The child hadn’t been able to read or write a lick of anything when they first met, and now, when given time, would spend the evenings reading mystery novels and had even started writing in a journal. At least a bit; seemed he enjoyed drawing more than scribbling.

Arthur huffed at his latest statement, “Ain’t no difference, still nobody wanted me. My daddy certainly didn’t.”

“Well, than that makes him all the more a fool,” Hosea brushed off the comment as best he could. He knew the history there was dark, muddled beneath murky waters. Arthur had made enough offhanded comments about it know there was nothing good to be had there. “Best you not worry about that anymore, cause Dutch and I? We rather fancy having you with us.”

Arthur didn’t respond, at least not first. Enough time had passed that Hosea suspected for a moment that the lad had drifted off once more. But his breaths were heavy, broken up by soft grunts, a sure indication he was hurting and trying to deal with the pain. Hosea let out a bitter sigh, drawing him closer, wishing more than anything he could take all that misery away.

“Dutch came to find me,” he spoke suddenly, his voice quiet and withdrawn. Almost sounded at first like a question he was trying to ask, but didn’t know quite how to do so.

“Of course he did. We were mighty worried about you,” Hosea agreed, “thought for a time you were lost. That we wouldn’t see you again.”

“Ain’t nobody ever come looking for me before,” the boy mumbled, “not to help me, at least.”

The confession hurt more than he thought it would. The knowledge that Arthur expected to be left behind, to be forgotten. Not due to circumstances, but rather due to the speculation that no one cared enough to find him. And it stung something awful. The dim realization was sinking in that Arthur expected it because no one _had_ cared enough before. Hosea let out a sigh, his next words chosen carefully.

“We only have each other, Arthur. We take care of one another, and that means we don’t leave anyone behind.”

Another bout of silence. Hosea hoped the words were sinking in, that they were making the impact that he wanted. He made a silent promise to reassure the boy each and every day _just_ how important he was. That he wasn’t as expendable as he thought he might be. He swallowed, formulating the next set of words, rehearsing them in his head to be even more convincing. Arthur, however, spoke first.

“Colm said that Dutch didn’t care.”

“You never mind what Colm said,” Hosea snapped, perhaps a little too forcefully. He drew in a breath, forced himself to calm down. “That man lies with every word he speaks. He had no right to take you like he did, to hurt you like this. And you better believe that he ain’t gonna lay his hands on you again. You hear me?”

There was a subtle nod. His words almost missed just then. “Dutch shot them.”

It was the tone of his voice that struck him more than the revelation. Quiet and hesitant, as though he were almost afraid to even bring it up. Dutch hadn't mentioned what exactly had taken place. Hosea could guess well enough though, knew that if he were in that situation he would do the same. But Arthur...he glanced down at him.

“Does that worry you?”

They only killed when necessary— only when their backs were against the wall and they had no other choice. Hosea and Dutch alike hated to take a life, and now Dutch had done just that. In front of Arthur, no less, who had never once witnessed such fatal actions from either man. Hosea could only wonder what the boy might be thinking of them now.

“I...” he started, only to stop as he grunted in pain. He had to pause a moment, and let out a shuddering breath. The sounds clutched at his heart, Hosea feeling the weight in the pit of his stomach. He could offer nothing, only hold him there, one hand rubbing his arm as the boy worked through the pain. After a long, agonizing moment, he heard him swallow heavily, Arthur seeming to have gotten things back under control. “I ain't ever seen him so mad before.”

The words had come out in a rush and the shiver that followed was easily felt. That heaviness in Hosea's stomach was only getting worse. He reached up a hand, brushing Arthur's hair back, mindful of the bruising that decorated his face.

“You know that he weren't mad at you, right?”

It was important for him to understand this. And Hosea knew that Dutch, in all his fury and rage, might not have communicated that properly. He needed for Arthur to know this before the boy went spiraling too deep. Before new scars replaced the old ones that he already bore.

“He said,” Arthur hesitated, clearing his throat, “he said something, and I...I don’t know-”

“What did he say?” Hosea did his best to stay calm. Dutch, as clever as he could be sometimes, often lacked common sense when it came to certain things. And he found himself waiting with growing apprehension to hear just exactly what the man had said, and fervently trying to think of what he might say in response to it.

“He said...that...that I were like a son to him,” he managed to get out, his voice trailing off at the list bit.

Was that all? Hosea almost felt himself laugh, the relief flooding through him. Seems as though Dutch was able to do something right. He glanced down at the boy with a smile. “Well, he’s right. I know you ain’t been with us long, Arthur, but you sure are important to us. And I hope that you feel the same way about us.”

“Course,” he nearly sputtered out. “I just...I didn’t think-”

Hosea let out a sigh, rubbing his back once more. “Now I know that life hasn’t been all that kind to you, but you need to understand that it isn’t always like that. Not anymore. Dutch and I? Well, we’re gonna be here for you. We’re family, Arthur, and we’re gonna stick to together.”

He didn’t respond, but Hosea could feel that the tension has eased. He seemed calmer, the quiet settling back over them, only broken by intermittent whimpers as he struggled to breathe. Hosea did not doubt for one moment that he was hurting, and it tore at him that he couldn’t help ease that pain in any way. Hosea shifted, finding a more comfortable place to sit, clearing his throat. Hoped he would be able to distract him from his pressing thoughts.

“We’re thinking about staying the winter in Montana, and heading over the mountains when the spring thaw comes. Spend some time back west. You’ll like over there, Arthur, it’s very beautiful. Quiet and open, lots of good hunting. I’ll teach you some if you want; see if we can make a hunter out of you.”

“Won’t be able to,” Arthur mumbled, “I lost my gun in the river.”

“We’ll get another one,” he reassured him, “Besides, that little cattleman won’t do anything for hunting. You’ll need a rifle. What do you say?”

“Sure,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I guess...but I did like my cattleman.”

“Well, we’ll be sure to get you another one,” Hosea laughed softly. He could remember how eager the boy had been to get in the first place. How proud he was, how attentively he worked with Dutch on using it properly. Of course it would be special to him.

“Will we be going out to Oregon?”

Hosea found himself surprised, the question completely unexpected. It took a moment for him to find the right words to respond. “We could, if that’s where you want to go.”

In truth, he had no idea what Dutch had planned. But surely there was enough time to do something that Arthur wanted. What exactly that was he wasn’t sure, but at the moment, Hosea was willing to give him anything he asked for, damn the consequences.

“Where in Oregon do you want to go?”

“My momma used to live out there before she...when she was younger. There’s a flower out there she really liked, and she picked a bunch, and let them dry out. Always kept them with her. I want to try and find some. She said they were good luck and...well I think I could use some right about now.”

They could all use some, he reckoned. Hosea felt the smile on his lips; he could almost feel the warmth of the boy’s sentiment seeping from him. That was perhaps the first time Arthur had spoken fondly of something in his past. At this point he didn’t care what Dutch had to say, he was going to personally escort Arthur out that way himself if he had to.

“That sounds like a mighty good idea,” he finally answered. “Do you remember what kind of flower it is?”

Arthur shook his head, his voice barely a mutter. “No...just that it’s pink.”

Didn’t necessarily narrow it down. But it was a start.

“Well, when we get to Montana, we’ll see if we can find a bookstore, and maybe we can figure it out together.”

“How would a bookstore know?”

Hosea laughed, “You can find out all sorts of things from books, Arthur. We’ll see what books about plants they have and go from there. Plus it’ll help you with your reading. You’re getting mighty fine at it.”

“I need a new journal too,” he brushed off the compliment. His voice soured a moment later. “And a new hat, I guess.”

His hat...he had forgotten about it. He, like Dutch, hadn’t been too fond of it, but Arthur sure cherished it. Hosea smiled, reaching over to pick it up. “You mean you don’t want this old thing anymore?”

“My hat!” it came out more like a squeak, one had reaching out to grab it quickly.

“Dutch found it down along the river, during one of the times he went off looking for you. He knew how much it meant, so he brought it back here for safekeeping.”

“I found your hat too!” Arthur blurted out just then. He seemed to have renewed vigor now, pushing himself up into a sitting position. Hosea reluctantly let him go with a grimace. Half his body was numb from sitting like this for so long now. He watched though, as Arthur clambered to the floor, picking up the fallen hat and presenting it to him like a trophy. Hosea took it with a chuckle, placing it back on his head, watching as Arthur followed suit with his own, a toothy grin crossing his face.

He was quite the sight. The bruising had gotten worse, and one eye was almost swollen shut. The cut on his chin was scabbed over, and Hosea was sure it would leave behind a scar. His entire face looked a mess. The poor boy. Still he forced a smile, doing his best to not let his anger and regret show.

“You look more like yourself already.”

That smile was still there. Hosea actually felt himself chuckle as he sat up, moving to the edge of the chair. “Seeing as we’re both up now, why don’t we have a wander into the kitchen and get ourselves something to eat. Dutch says he brought supplies back. We should go take a look.”

“You want me to wake Dutch?” he wondered, glancing over to where the man slept. Hosea followed his gaze, studying the younger man. Then shook his head.

“Best we let him sleep; he’s had a long day too.”

Arthur nodded, moving to help him as he got up. Hosea tried to not rely on him; didn’t want to put that kind of burden on him, but Arthur was insistent. Damn stubborn child. But as irritating as it was, he knew it was a good sign. The first step in which he knew was a long road to recovery.

And it felt good to know they were on the right path now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Boy!
> 
> One more chapter after this. This story was a lot longer than anticipated folks! But I may already have a sequel in the works. I won't start posting that until I get a head a bit so I can keep up with consistent updates.
> 
> For now, enjoy the fluff, I hope I did alright at it. Arthur surely needs more TLC than just that, but it's a start, right?
> 
> Looking forward to hear from all you, don't be shy!!! :)


	11. Chapter 11

The headache hadn't gone away. He woke to it, just as fierce as it had been when he drifted off. Pounding beneath his temples, angry like a viper. Gently reached up with a hand, fingers digging into his temples as though he could banish it all away. Dreams had weighed him down, and Dutch was doing everything in his power to try and figure out which terrors had actually taken place, and which ones had been concocted by his subconscious in the dead of night.

“There's coffee in the kitchen, if you want some,” the voice sounded from somewhere above him.

Hosea didn't sound angry anymore. Dutch supposed that was a consolation of some sorts, no matter how small. Still, he didn't open his eyes. Didn't even move from where he lay. He did let out a grunt, some sort of animalistic sound to reassure the man he had heard him. While coffee did sound appealing, the effort required to get up and collect some seemed to be out of the question, at least for now.

Hosea, bless him, understood perfectly. Didn't say anything more, didn't push or prod him. Dutch relished in the moment, doing his best to tap the pain down, to get it under control. He let out a few long breaths, could feel the steady pulsating start to ease, if only a little.

“How's he doing?”

It had taken a while to collect himself. The headache was still there, still unyielding, but he was starting to think straight. He heard the man sigh from somewhere above him, the unhappiness evident in his voice.

“Rough- he's hurting something awful, Dutch.”

Not a surprise. Arthur had been thrashed something fierce. God damn Colm and his lackeys. He let out another breath.

“I brought back some gin,” he muttered. Not the best cure for pain, but shit, it was better than nothing. That, too, was a consolation of sorts.

“I saw- got him to drink some. Just enough to take the edge off. He's sleeping right now.”

“Good… I… In the morning I'll take one of the horses, head out to town. See if I can’t find something that'll help.”

“It's past morning already, Dutch.”

He cracked his eyes open at that statement. Found Hosea sitting on the arm of the couch above him. Winced in the bright light that streamed in through the window.

Well...shit.

Grudgingly he pushed himself up, doing his best to ignore the wave of nausea that washed over him. His head was not happy with the sudden movement, and he dropped it into waiting hands, holding his breath until the room stopped spinning.

“I'll head out...here...here in just one moment...” he muttered, trying to shake off the gnawing ache. God he needed to pull himself together.

“Don't be a fool, Van der Linde,” Hosea scolded him. Ah...last name basis. Apparently Hosea was still angry after all. “Last thing we need is for you to take off gallivanting who knows where, only for you to fall off your horse halfway there.”

“I'm not going to fall off the horse,” Dutch argued, rubbing at his temples. The ride to town and back would take a couple of hours. If he set out now, he could hopefully get back before Arthur woke, be able to slip him something to help ease the pain. The poor kid....

But poor him first. He let out a curse as he leaned back against the cushions. Could feel the shift in weight, heard the hobbling footsteps. Wanted to yell at Hosea for shuffling about. If _he_ went down, Dutch doubted he would have the fortitude to get him back up. In fact, he might even just even lay down next to Hosea and die, given how bad his head was feeling at the current moment. Arthur would wake to find the pair of them in a heap on the floor, and heaven knew what that would do to the boy. 

Steps again, slow and hobbled, the floor creaking beneath his weight. A cup was pressed into his hand, the bitter aroma of coffee as he brought it up to his lips, sipping slowly. He felt Hosea sit down near him as he took another sip, a grimace on his face. There was something off about this...

“Been a while since you've had one this bad,” the man mentioned casually, pulling him from his thoughts. Dutch managed a nod, taking another slow sip. It warmed his core, settling in his stomach, the warmth spreading to the rest of his body. Warm and fuzzy. Luring. He frowned. 

“What did you put in here?”

“The rest of the gin.”

He felt himself chuckling despite himself. Took another sip, more this time. It seemed to be helping. This time when he opened his eyes he wasn't greeted with a wave of pain. He blinked a few times, adjusting, taking in the rest of the room. A rthur was curled up  in the chair Hosea had occupied earlier last night. The blanket half around him, hat drawn down over his head, nearly obscuring his face. Nearly, because he could see his features somewhat, and what was visible wasn't pleasant to see. 

“I'm going to still try to get to town,” he told Hosea quietly, “... see what I get for him, maybe rustle up a splint for that ankle of yours.”

“It's doing better,” Hosea brushed him off, “... but it isn't the worst idea you’ve had this week.”

That was a slight if ever he had heard one. He gave the man a sideways glance, “It's not like I wanted this to happen, Hosea.”

“I know. But it still happened.”

That it had. He drank some more. Nearly emptied the cup, swirling the last bit in the bottom, watching the liquid swish around. Too much coffee, and not enough gin, he decided.

“Arthur says you shot them?”

Ah...so they had talked. Of course they had talked; Arthur had always been more open with Hosea. Dutch frowned, chewed on his bottom lip as he tried to sort it all out in his head.

“Patrick and Aiden,” he confessed quietly. “One of them was beating him and the other drew on me-it was instinctual, Hosea, I wouldn't have...”

He trailed off, unable to finish. Because he still would have. He could still remember seeing Arthur on the ground, bloody and bruised, Aiden pinning him down, Aiden being far too close to comfort, Aiden with his hands all over— No. He wouldn't have done things differently. Maybe killed him slower, maybe made his passing more agonizing. Maybe would have killed them all if given the chance…

“Should have shot them all,” Hosea cut in, miming his thoughts. Dutch met his gaze, could see the fury there. The anger brewing silently just beneath the surface. Maybe one day they would. Maybe one day they could, but...

“Revenge isn't a luxury we can afford, Hosea,” he mentioned softly. None of them were in any state to go chasing Colm down. There was no way in which things would end favorably. Dutch considered them to be lucky, damn lucky, that they were together and alive. Now was the time to focus on healing; not chasing after their own dark desires.

“When’re you planning on heading out?”

He drained the rest of the co ffee, went to move to his feet. “Soon, give this a few minutes to kick in, and I'll go out.”

“I meant towards Montana,” Hosea placed a hand on his shoulder, holding him here.

Of that, he wasn't sure. He fiddled with the empty cup, watching the last few drops run along the bottom of the cup as he turned it in his hands. Hosea was still waiting for an answer, and so he mustered up a smile and tried to be convincing. 

“End of the week, perhaps? Give you and Arthur some time to rest, heal up a bit. I'll get some supplies in town, see if I can rustle up another horse.” A fragile plan, but a plan nonetheless.

He had found some money in the saddlebags, some trinkets as well. Could sell them off for a decent price if he found the right buyer. Not nearly enough for another horse, though. Truthfully his best chance at getting one was to just steal one. He'd be alright as long as he was careful. Town was busy enough, and there were plenty of fools that left their horses unchecked after all. Do some surveying, and take when no one was watching.

“We still might find our old ones,” Hosea mentioned casually. 

Doubtful; they had left them miles back, and there would be no telling to where they would have wandered. Scouring the area for them would be a fruitless endeavor, and honestly there was a good chance the law would have already rounded them up. No, that was a lost cause, he knew. But he nodded, if only to appease Hosea and pushed himself to his feet. He needed more coffee.

“I will do my best to keep my eye out for them,” Dutch reassured him. He moved across the room, stopping near Arthur, ignoring Hosea's scowl, the man chiding him to let him be. Waking him was not his intention; checking up on him was. 

The soft guttural snore could be heard, almost comical in a way had the cause not been for darker reasons. He was curled up on himself, head resting on his arms, the blanket halfway on the floor. Dutch moved slowly, carefully picking it up, tucking it back around the boy's shoulders, one hand coming to a rest there. He hadn't even stirred. Dutch let his hand stay there for a moment, fighting the urge to squeeze, not wanting to wake him. Rest was by far the best thing for him, he knew. Dutch pulled away with a sigh, turned to meet Hosea's gaze.

“He'll be okay.”

“I sure hope so,” Hosea answered him quietly.

There was doubt in Hosea’s tone and it turned Dutch’s stomach. Doubt...they could not afford to doubt. Dutch wanted to tell him as much. Wanted to muster up the words, an elaborate speech that would reassure him, that would erase any traces of uncertainty. But he could find none. His head still hurt. He needed more coffee. He needed to say… something. He needed to erase that doubt.

“We'll make sure that he is.”

Faith? Perhaps. Hope? Maybe. Determination...yes. He was determined to see that Arthur was going to be okay. It would take time, he knew, they would have to work with him, build him back up, but Dutch was ready for that challenge.

He was stubborn, he was determined, and he was a fool.

But by God, even if it killed him, he would make sure that Arthur would be okay in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for sticking with me! I loved hearing all of your thoughts and feedback over the course of it all, it was really good encouragement to keep me going. As I mentioned I do have a sequel to this in the works, which will be coming out sometime in the future. I want to get ahead of myself and get onto a posting schedule for you all :)
> 
> Final chapter here, the end to a sudden fic that came out of nowhere. Major thanks to Darling_Jack for getting me through some rough patches. If you haven't checked out their work yet, please do so, it's phenomenal! Truly it is. 
> 
> Leave your thoughts on the way out, or just say hi! And hope to see you guys on the next one!

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't kill me...


End file.
